


In the Maker's Light: Collected Ficlets

by MsBarrows



Series: Fragments and Ficlets [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Ask Fic, F/F, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Inspired by Art, M/M, Multi, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2017-11-01 13:53:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 42
Words: 147,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsBarrows/pseuds/MsBarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short ficlets, mainly written for prompts on Tumblr, or inspired by art or screenshots there.</p><p>Collection closed as of 2015-11-06</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In The Maker's Light

  


He stopped, just inside the doors, caught for a moment in the light that streamed in from the windows high above. His mother would have loved this place, he found himself thinking, remembering how religiously she'd attended whatever chantry they were closest to in their travels.

He could only hate it; hate it, and everything it stood for to him. But for a moment, he saw the beauty of this place as his mother would have seen it, and was unexpectedly moved by what the hands of men had wrought.


	2. Flight Attendant AU 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another ficlet that was written for the Ask meme. This particular one was written for someone who I knew loves the idea of a DA2 modern day AU where all the DA2 characters are airplane passengers and crew (particularly flight attendants). This particular scene is the result of a lengthy conversation in IRC in which ideas about character roles and possible events in such an AU were tossed around like confetti.

"A5 has his light lit again, Merrill," Anders pointed out.

"Oh dear," she exclaimed worriedly. "I was supposed to bring him the vegetarian meal and a coffee. I forgot!"

Anders smiled at the worried girl. "I'll take care of it," he said, seeing as she was busy with preparing a fresh urn of coffee. He carried the items down the aisle, smiling down at the irate-looking passenger. Handsome fellow, with prematurely white hair and gorgeous green eyes, he noted.

"Sorry for the wait sir," he said gayly.


	3. Hunted Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted this on the "Dragon Age – Alistair Fan Club" community on Facebook, as part of an explanation to someone of how the "Name/Name – phrase" results from the generator would be used to inspire a story. I later reposted it on Tumblr since I liked it.
> 
> For a prompt from the Dragon Age prompt generator:
>
>> "Connor Guerrin/Sister Petrice - hunted down"

Connor pressed back into the doorway, scrubbing the back of his hand across his mouth, and scowled at the blood from his split lip. He should have taken more time in picking a ship when fleeing Ferelden - if he'd realized the ship's first stop would be Kirkwall, he'd have taken another. He'd heard far too much about the reputation of the Gallows to chance coming here intentionally.

He leaned out into the alley, looking toward the street. No one there. Feeling a surge of relief, he stepped out of the doorway.

"Did you think you could escape the templars that easily?" a sour voice asked from behind him. He whirled, to see a grey-hair cleric before him, a pair of templars flanking her.

Caught.


	4. Flight Attendant AU 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did another pair of Ask meme ficlets for the person who wants Flight attendant AU stories; she'd also mentioned liking nurses, so one of the passengers turned out to be one.

Merrill checked the lower shelf of the cart, then straightened up and smiled anxiously at the stern red-headed woman. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I'm out of 2% milk. If you don't mind waiting for a few minutes, I can fetch you one from the back when I'm done. Or would you prefer something else?"

The woman frowned. The man seated beside her, a gruff-looking fellow with mutton-chop whiskers, leaned over and spoke. "That's all right, she'll have a ginger ale instead. Won't you, my dear?"

"Yes, Donnic."

* * *

Anders stepped quickly to the intercom. "Could any passenger with medical training please come to the front, we have a passenger experiencing a medical emergency." He'd barely hung up the mouthpiece again before a red-headed woman came hurrying up the aisle, bag in hand, followed by a man with muttonchop whiskers.

"Nurse Aveline Hendyr, and this is my husband Donnic, he's had paramedic training. What's the problem?" she asked briskly.

Anders pointed to a white-haired young man having a seizure.


	5. Ask Box Ficlets 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Threw my Tumblr Ask Box open for prompts this evening as a bit of a celebration for getting Sebastian & Anders finally in bed together in "Eye of The Storm" over the last two updates. These are the prompts I got and the stories I wrote in response to them.
> 
> There is one crossover prompt among them, I'd mentioned my plans to write them in between solving puzzles in Portal 2, so that inspired one prompter to name a non-DA character.

**Meredith/Hawke – Muffins**

Meredith blinked down at the open box Hawke was offering her. "What are these?" she asked sharply, narrowing her eyes at the warrior.

"Muffins," Hawke replied. "Fresh baked - they're still warm from the oven."

"Why are you offering them to me?" Meredith asked suspiciously.

Hawke shrugged. "Why not?" he asked. "I suppose I could give them to Orsino instead, if you don't want them..."

Meredith's mouth firmed and she glared at Hawke. "No, that's fine, I'll take them, she said, accepting the box. It was still sitting open on the corner of her desk when he left a few minutes later, the Knight-Commander giving it a look that was equal parts wary, hungry, and puzzled.

"So why _did_ you give Meredith muffins?" Varric asked curiously once they were safely out of earshot of her office.

Hawke grinned. "Few things confuse unpleasant people as much as unearned kindness. Wondering why I gave them to her is going to bother her for _ages_."

* * *

**M!Hawke/Fenris – Lost Time**

"Are you sure?"

"I don't _know_ , Hawke!" Fenris snapped. "I think I lost it around here somewhere."

Hawke gave the elf The Look - the one where his mouth went into a thin line, and his eyes narrowed, and Fenris was sure the man wanted to snap at him but was reining in his infamous temper instead. And that, for Fenris, was the final straw; it was a look he'd been on the receiving end of too much of late, and he couldn't stand seeing it any longer, seeing Hawke holding back, biting his tongue, something he did for no other of his companions.

He snarled something bitter in Arcanum and turned away. He managed all of two strides before he found himself being slammed against the wall by the man, Hawke's hands shoving his shoulders back against it.

" _What_ is your _problem_ ," the man snapped out angrily.

" _You_ are, Hawke," Fenris spat out. "Stop pussy-footing around me! Stop treating me differently than you do the others! When I mess up, _tell_ me I did!"

Hawke stared at him for a long moment, then suddenly grinned, and gave a short bark of laughter. "All right. You messed up, you idiot. Now stop acting like a wet cat and help me find the blasted timepiece, all right? We've lost enough time on this double-damned errand for Varric already."

Fenris nodded stiffly. The two men moved away from the wall, studiously keeping their eyes on the ground.

"I'm not at all like a wet cat," Fenris muttered after a while.

Hawke laughed again.

* * *

**Fenris/GLaDOS**

He woke somewhere strange. Not an entirely new experience, though the surroundings were unlike anything he's ever seen before, a rectangular box of a room, the walls of some smooth metal. Dwarven work, perhaps. Which would explain the smell of great age about the place.

His head ached abominably, and when he moved, he found he was unusually stiff and sore, as if he'd been lying still for a very long time. His mouth tasted like something had died in it. Died and rotted, leaving a foul film behind. He coughed and spat, and coughed again as his motion caused a cloud of dry dusty powder to float up from the surface of the bed he was lying on. Not just on; almost in, his body having sunk down into the strangely spongey surface of it.

He struggled free of the bed, cursing and spitting as every motion released a further cloud of fine particles. He almost fell when he first tried to stand. It took him a long moment to understand the curious springiness of his step; his usual armour was gone, replaced by a tight-fitting garment, of a finely woven shiny cloth as white as his own hair, with strange stiff boot-like contraptions encasing his feet, a wide strip of some flexible material curling down from the back of his calves and under his heel, holding him suspended several inches above the floor. They gave just slightly with each step; it would take a considerable impact to bring his feet in contact with the ground. There was no obvious way of removing the boots; he took several cautious steps, quickly finding his balance in the strange devices.

He looked around the dusty, partially ruined room, seeking any sign of how he'd come to be here, of Hawke or any of his other companions. A door hung ajar in one corner of the room; he walked over and struggled with in, managing to open it enough to squeeze out around it, and stepped out of the feebly lit room into a large darkened cavern. Cautiously, he moved a step or two forward. His foot knocked into a tall mound of debris; it cascaded to the floor with an astonishing amount of noise.

Bright lights suddenly flared on all around him, some shining in his eyes. Something began moving overhead of him, with a harsh sound of metal grating against metal. His lyrium markings flared as he turned, meaning to retreat to the room, only to see it retreating from him instead, rising away up into the air on some unseen mechanism. He dove for the shadows.

The lights moved, following him, throwing his shadow darkly against another of the smooth pale walls; there was nowhere to hide in this place. He turned, facing the lights, and froze, waiting to see what fate awaited him in this arcane lair.

A strange voice spoke; no natural speech. "Hello. Welcome to the Aperture Science Computer-Aided Enrichment Centre. I hope your brief detention in the relaxation vault has been a pleasant one…"

As he looked around the huge chamber, full of odd objects, Fenris was unsure of many things. But two things he was certain of; somewhere at the centre of this strange place must be the mage in control of it. And that mage needed to die.

* * *

**Fenris/Anders – Rain**

Anders risked a glance sideways at the elf. Fenris certainly looked like he was in an unusually foul mood, his shoulders hunched, his face drawn into a fierce scowl. The heavy rain had his hair plastered to his head, water dripping off the ends, running down his face and neck. He continued marching stoicly onwards, pretending to ignore the drenching they were both receiving.

Anders shivered, hunching his shoulders a little under his own feathered pauldrons. He could just imagine how cold and clammy the elf must be in those thin leathers. His own robe was far more practical, the oily feathers diverting and shedding the rainfall, the multiple layers keeping in his body heat even when damp. He suspected now would be a bad time to point that out to the visibly fuming elf. Especially since it was his fault the two of them were caught out here in the rain; him and his need for more elfroot, and Hawke's silvered tongue, that had convinced the elf to escort the mage to one of the places where it grew along the Wounded Coast.

As he glanced at Fenris again, he concealed a smile. It wouldn't do to have the elf notice his amusement at Fenris' discomfort. Especially since the only explanation he could offer for it was how very much Fenris resembled an offended cat, as he stalked through the downpour with his ears laid back.

* * *


	6. In Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of the artists I follow on Tumblr, where she goes by the username a1879, posted a lovely 30-minute study of Loghain today, on which she lamented that she had been unable to write something to accompany it, since Loghain intimidates her. So I threw this together as a surprise for her, since I enjoy writing Loghain.

Artwork by [a1879](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anon1879)

He had told his daughter that her husband was dead. She had kept her normal calm expression, but he had still seen the moment when she absorbed the news, her face freezing, her body going unnaturally still, as she forget to breathe for a moment.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice flat and emotionless. "There was nothing I could do."

She nodded, once. "Excuse me, I believe I need to be alone for a while," she said quietly, calmly, then turned and walked away, back upright, carriage as graceful as it had ever been. Yet he knew from the look in her eyes before she turned away that she was screaming inside. She had loved her golden boy, even if _he_ had not always treated her as well as he should have.

He thought of following her, comforting her, but the days when he could comfort his daughter's hurts were long gone, along with her pony-tails and skinned knees, and the fat pony that had been the most common cause of the latter.

Instead he went to his own room; the rooms that had been his, here in Denerim Castle, since he had first come here after Rowan's death. Maric had wanted him near, and so he'd stayed here, most of the time, save for a few brief visits back to Gwaren each year, to see his wife and daughter. Then to bury his wife, after which visits back home became an even rarer thing.

He sat in his favourite chair near the fire, the leather worn from years of use, looking silently at the other chair; the one Maric had often sat in, joining him of an evening for drinks and conversation. Until Maric had disappeared at see, leaving alone Loghain to hold together Ferelden, to keep Maric and Rowan's son on the throne.

The chair had not been used since; Anora preferred the low footstool near the fireplace, one of her few childhood affectations that had survived into maturity. Cailan had only rarely visited him in his rooms, and preferred to walk back and forth while he talked, or in a particularly relaxed mood, to sprawl on the floor.

His rooms seemed filled with ghosts of a sudden; Rowan, Maric, and now their son, Cailan. As close to a son as he had ever had, himself. He swallowed, thickly, as he sat in the gathering darkness, regretting a promise made to Maric long years ago, after the debacles at West Hill.

"If you hadn't come after me, you might have made a difference in that battle. At the very least, you might have gotten more of them out alive," Maric had told him, fuming with anger when he had learned of the enormous cost the rebel army had paid.

"Next time, I don't come to your rescue. You're on your own," Loghain whispered aloud, the promise Maric had forced out of him afterwards. The promise that Maric's son had collected on, when far too many darkspawn attacked the king's position, and a signal was lit far too late for a rescue to be anything but a lost cause.

He sat in darkness, wishing there'd been another choice.


	7. No Proper Good-byes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The previous Loghain ficlet inspired a1879 to do a lovely little 15 minute sketch of Anora and Loghain. Which inspired me to write another little story for her.

Artwork by [a1879](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anon1879)

What do you say to your daughter, when you have been away while she watched her mother die?

"I'm sorry," was not enough. Nor could "I love you" remove the hurt. "She never told me," was not excuse enough, for _not having been here_.

And so he stared dumbly at this calm young woman, standing gracefully erect, with her smoothly braided hair and neat clothes. Nothing at all like the exuberant young girl with bedraggled pony tails, grass-stained short dress, and skinned knees whom he remembered.

"You've grown," he said finally, voice hoarse and breaking a little on the words. As stupid as all the other things he could have said, but hadn't. _Of course_ she'd grown. Time had not stopped in Gwaren while he was off in Denerim, working at Maric's side.

"Yes," she said, and then suddenly stepped close, and flung her arms around him, the girl he remembered showing through. "I _missed_ you," she said, burying her face against his chest for a moment, then looked up at his face. "Mother wouldn't let me send for you. She said what you were doing was too important."

He closed his eyes for a moment. _Celia_ … "Your mother should have known that _she_ was more important," he said finally. "I would have come. When I heard…" he broke off, unable to continue.

Anora nodded, then slipped her arm around his waist. "Come," she said, kindly, with a maturity far beyond her years. "I will show you the garden where I sprinkled her ashes."

He nodded, and let her lead him away, thinking, as he did, _she is so much like her mother_. And regretted all the moments that he had not been here, with Celia, to see his daughter grow up into this regal young woman, to spend what time he could with his family, to be with Celia in her final sickness. Another person lost to eternity while he followed duty, another loved one dead without him being able to say a proper good-bye to them; his father, then Rowan, now Celia.

"You will come with me to Denerim, afterwards," he said.

"Of course," Anora answered, calmly, almost coolly, the smooth mask back on her face. But her arm tightened for a moment around his waist, clinging to him like the little girl often had, and for now it was enough.


	8. Desires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Done to accompany another lighting study drawing by a1879, of Sebastian Vael kissing a desire demon.

Artwork by [a1879](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anon1879)

If there was one thing Sebastian was familiar with, it was desire. In his youth it had been desires for simple things, things he usually hadn't been given; his father's approval, his mother's love, his brothers' friendship. In his teens he'd learned to give in to his desires - for fine clothing, rich food, good wine, beautiful women and pretty boys. Then he'd been shipped off to the chantry, a shame to his name, and there he'd had to learn to deny his desires.

That didn't stop them from haunting his dreams; so many desires, never acknowledged publicly, but oh, the shame of them in his mind at night, in his simple bed, in his sparsely furnished room. The turn of a well-shaped calf under a flowing dress, the swell of a dusky-skinned bosom, the mischievous glint of amber eyes, looking not at him but another. Fine white lines etched along a muscular form. Huge too-innocent green eyes peering out from under night-black hair. So many, many desires…

A good thing he wasn't a mage, he sometimes mused. _His_ desires, at least, posed no danger to anyone but himself.


	9. Ask Box Ficlets 2

**Sebastian/Fenris**

Sebastian spooned out a good-sized helping of stew onto his plate, then went and sat down with his back against a nearby ridge of dark stone jutting from the sand. He all but inhaled his first few mouthfuls, feeling half-starved after an overly long day of following Hawke through some of the more rugged - and vertically inclined - bits of the Wounded Coast.

Fenris walked over and sat down nearby a few minutes later, first propping his blade against the stone where it would be ready to hand if something disturbed their dinner. He gave Sebastian a short nod, the two eating their stew in silence while watching the pair over by the fire, Hawke roaring with laughter at some witticism of the dwarf's.

Sebastian glanced at him after a while, and smiled warmly. "You're good with that sword."

Fenris snorted, and gave Sebastian a sideways look. "Does it surprise you, that an elf would be so skilled?" he asked acerbically.

Sebastian let his eyebrows raise slightly, and looked questioningly at the elf. "No. Should it?"

Fenris paused in his eating to give the archer an evaluating look. A very faint smile lifted one corner of his lips. "I suppose not," he said, then grudgingly nodded at Sebastian's bow, sitting at hand in the sand. "You're very good with that bow."

Sebastian grinned at him. "For someone not an elf, you mean?"

Fenris snorted again. There was a glint of real amusement in his eyes when he glanced at Sebastian this time. "No. I know well that others than elves may be skilled with a bow. Varric is a prime example," he added, nodding to where the dwarf was pacing back by the fire, plate of stew in one hand, spoon waving around through the air in the other as he told some lengthy tale to Hawke.

"I am not entirely sure Bianca can be called a _bow_ ; it seems an inadequate name for such a complex weapon," Sebastian observed, then looked questioningly at the elf. "You have a very educated turn of phrase."

Fenris frowned, hunching in on himself slightly. "You can blame my master for that."

"Master?" Sebastian asked curiously. He knew very little of Hawke, and even less of companions; he suspected that Hawke asking him to accompany the man on this expedition along the coast had been a move of desperation on the mage's part.

Fenris looked down at his plate in silence for a long moment, then abruptly answered. "I was a slave. In Tevinter," he said, biting off the words, then glanced again at Sebastian. "I escaped."

Sebastian nodded thoughtfully. "And your master educated you? Before you escaped, I mean?" he asked curiously.

Fenris gave him another of those odd looks, as if he'd expected some other reaction to his revelation, and was surprised not to have gotten it. "Not intentionally, no. But I picked up things while acting as his bodyguard," he said, then frowned. "And I believe it amused him that I was able to speak so... eloquently, once my capacity for speech returned. He encouraged it; I was given elocution lessons."

It was Sebastian's turn to snort. "I had those too. My mother did not approve of her children speaking with a Starkhaven accent, never mind that Starkhaven was where we were born and raised. Our speech master was rather a tyrant; he used to rap our knuckles with a ruler at the slightest sign of a rolled R. What about yours?"

An uneasy look came into Fenris' eyes. "He was rather harsher than that," he said shortly, and changed the subject

* * *

**Fenris/Isabela**

Fenris froze and looked up from his chair, pausing in the act of running a soft cloth along the edge of his newly-sharpened sword.

"Well. You really did mean it when you said you were going to go home and _polish your sword_ ," the woman posed in the doorway said, her voice low and amused.

"Isabela," he said curtly, giving her a very slight nod of acknowledgement, before returning to what he'd been doing when she appeared in his doorway. "What brings you here?"

"Why, you do, of course," she said, strolling across the room to sit down in the other chair, the one by the table. She crossed her long legs, and smiled invitingly at him. "The thought of you here, all alone, polishing your sword... I thought you sounded like you could use some company."

Fenris snorted softly. He finished rubbing down his blade, holding it up in one hand, tip tilted toward the fireplace, and twisted it back and forth, checking that there wasn't so much as fingerprint marring its smooth surface. Isabela sat quietly, watching intently, until he finally gave a small, satisfied nod, and put the blade aside.

"I like a man who takes proper care of his weapon," she observed. "Though I am rather less fond of the ones that ignore me."

"I was not ignoring you," he said, and rose to his feet. "I merely prefer to start one task before beginning another," he added, as he stepped over to stand beside her chair and look down at her, one hand reaching out to gently touch her cheek.

The smile she gave him this time was much warmer. "I do so like a man who concentrates on doing the job at hand to perfection."

He snorted again, running one thumb lightly across her lips before turning and walking away. "Are you coming?" he asked over one shoulder, as he moved toward the bed.

"I'm sure I will be shortly," she all but purred, as she rose and followed him.

* * *


	10. Ask Box Ficlets 3

**Anders, Post-game Living in Tevinter**

It was the one place the chantry could not reach him. Not the _Orlesian_ chantry, anyway, and the Tevinter chantry had no interest in punishing a mage who'd destroyed an edifice belonging to their rivals.

He found it darkly amusing that it was the words of Fenris that had made him even think of coming here, after Hawke had told him to leave Kirkwall. Ordered him to leave - made it clear that if he remained, she'd kill him herself. He'd almost thought he wanted that, at first, but once he'd started moving, he'd realized how much he wanted to _live_. He'd fled the city in a panic, not even daring to return to his clinic in Darktown to retrieve anything - not food, or clothing, nor the little money he had left, nothing.

As he huddled in a his robes that night, hiding in a cave that was little more than a sandy-floored nook in a tumble of rocks, words Fenris had once said came back to him. "You should have lived in Tevinter. You'd be happier there. There, your magic would be a mark of honour."

The elf had not meant them for advice; they'd been meant to be cutting word, coupled as they were with mention of owning slaves, and blood magic, but he saw the wisdom in them then. He might not want to be a Magister, as Fenris so obviously imagined - but he'd heard healers were respected in Tevinter, and left largely out of the political machinations of the magisters.

Surely, he told himself, life would be better for him here. Surely not all lesser mages ended up as thralls or slaves - did they?

* * *

**Fenris/Anders – Family**

"You don't remember anything about them at all?" Anders asked, surprised.

"No. My earliest memory is of unbearable pain, as these marks were made in my flesh," Fenris said sharply. "I do not recall my family at all. Can we drop this line of questioning now?"

"All right. Sorry," Anders mumbled, and went back to grinding elfroot for poultices.

They worked in silence for a while, Fenris picked over the bundles of weedy growths, stripping the leaves from the stems and piling them near at hand for the mage for process. He still wasn't sure why he'd volunteered to help; possibly because of the mage's comment that so many of them were used up on him, since he preferred not to be magically healed if it could be avoided.

"What about your own family?" he suddenly asked. "Do you remember them?"

Anders paused, pestle motionless in his hands. "A little," he said softly, then added another handful of leaves to the mortar and resumed pulping them, frowning as he worked. "For so many years I tried to purposefully forget... a lot of it has faded. I remember the colour of my mother's hair, the sound of my father's voice, the smell of their clothes... but their faces? Even what name I answered to back then... it's all gone."

They worked on in silence for a while.

"I did not think it would be that easy to forget," Fenris ventured after a while. "Everything that has happened since I... awoke again. I remember clearly."

Anders shrugged. "People's minds are funny places. Everyone remembers things differently. And sometimes... sometimes people are thankful, to be able to forget. Aren't there things you wish you didn't remember?"

A soft snort. "All too many of them." A long pause, then, quietly, "But I do wish I remembered what family I'd had, before. If I even had one."


	11. Ask Box Ficlets 4

**The Adventures of troll!Hawke: VOLCANO VOMIT! Anders is deeply sceptical.**

"Volcano vomit? _Really_ , Hawke?" Anders said in a tone of disbelief.

"Yeah, you know, all that... that dust, and flying rocks, and the hot stuff..." Hawke replied, making a vague upwards gesture with his hands that looked more like he was trying to sketch in the lithsome outline of a nubile female - Isabela, for example - than something geologic.

"You mean ash, pumice, and lava?" Anders asked.

"Yeah - all that stuff," Hawke agreed. "Volcano vomit!"

* * *

**Sebastian. Isabela. A confession.**

"Isabela, if this is going to be another of your attempts to seduce me..." Sebastian said warningly as he saw who had just walked into the small room.

She smiled, as she moved to sit down in the chair across from his. "Surprisingly, it isn't, though I could always change my mind if you're actually open to the idea for once... no? Pity," she said, and crossed her legs, lounging back in the chair as if it was one of the comfortably overstuffed seats in Hawke's mansion, not a hard, straight-backed wooden chair in a small, austere room in the chantry.

Sebastian carefully averted his eyes from her lap, and once again found himself wishing the woman would be a little more _modest_ in her dress when visiting the chantry. Not unmixed with a certain wistfulness that they hadn't first crossed paths back in his pre-chantry days, which led to an attempted calculation of relative ages and the thought she'd likely been a tad too young at the time to have been of any interest to that younger, wastrel self. He firmly pulled his thoughts back to the present, and cleared his throat. "Of what did you wish to speak?" he asked.

Isabela sighed, and frowned. "Regrets," she said, and straightened up in the chair. "I... have tried to deny it to myself for years, but I have some regrets about my past. And not just of the 'I regret not jumping that luscious available male' kind, either," she added, eyes twinkling for a moment. "I have very few of those."

Sebastian snorted softly, and found himself returning her smile. "What is it you regret, then?"

"It's..." she said, and paused. "I..." She fell silent again. Sebastian was surprised; it was the first time he'd ever seen her at a loss for words. Abruptly she sighed, and pushed herself back to her feet. "Never mind. I don't think it's something I'm ready to speak of after all," she said, and hurried over to the door.

"Isabela," he said. She stopped, hand on the handle, back to him. "If you change your mind, my door is always open to you. As a friend."

She nodded, and bit her lip, then turned her head; not looking at him, but he could see the profile of her face, see the sadness there. "Do you have things in your own past you regret, Sebastian?" she asked, almost wistfully.

"Oh, yes," he said softly, thinking back to his childhood, his youth, his early years in the chantry. "Many of them."

She nodded again, then turned and left, leaving him wondering what in her own past had made her look so sad. Wondering if he would ever know what it was she regretted, this woman who normally acted as if "regret" was a word that didn't apply to her.

* * *

**Sebastian aaaaand Alistair. I'd love to see what you come up for this~**

It was rare that Sebastian decided to attend one of the card nights in Varric's suite at the Hanged Man. He always felt uncomfortable in the presence of Hawke and his friends. He felt like a perpetual outsider, most of them having been with Hawke for three years longer than he had, and long-set in the patterns of their friendships with each other. He sometimes thought they only tolerated him at all at these gathering because of Hawke; that without Hawke's acceptance and welcome, the others would have shown him only a cold shoulder. Well... perhaps not Fenris; he and the elven warrior had formed a real friendship, one that went beyond the limited time they spent together in Hawke's company.

Perhaps he was just early, he thought, when he arrived to find the door to Varric's suite closed and locked, no light leaking under it or sound of company within. He hesitated there in the hallway, filled with doubts - perhaps the card game for tonight had been cancelled, and no one had thought to send word to him, since he so rarely participated? Or perhaps they were just delayed, out on one of Hawke's expeditions somewhere, and would show up momentarily, the group of them tired and sweaty, their clothes blood-daubed, ready for an evening of relaxation.

He considered returning to the chantry, then decided he should wait at least a little while, having come all this way. He turned and went back downstairs to the main room, and purchased a glass of whisky from Corff - not the cheap rotgut made in a back alley somewhere that he served to most customers, but the real thing. Real Starkhaven Gold Reserve, from a small cask kept hidden away in the cellar which undoubtedly was missing the tax stamps that proved it was exported and imported through proper channels. Sebastian little cared if his cousin Goren was missing a little income; all he cared for was the rich, smoky peat flavour of home.

The bar was crowded; there was only one seat left open, at a small table meant for two. He almost remained standing, seeing who the other occupant of the table was, then sighed and walked over and took a seat across from the drunkard. He could chalk it up to an act of charity later, he supposed, keeping company with the drunkard while he waited for Hawke and Varric and the others to show up.

The man lifted his head to stare blankly at Sebastian for a moment, his red-rimmed eyes peering blearily through the curtain of his long lank hair. He frowned, looking confused. "Do I know you?" he asked, voice barely blurred, though judging by the number of dead soldiers on the table he should have been quite thoroughly passed out. The man must have a phenomenal capacity for drink.

"No," Sebastian answered, and sipped fastidiously at his own whisky. "It was the last seat left."

The man nodded. "Make yourself comfortable," he said benignly, with a negligent wave of one hand, then sorted through the bottles and glasses in front of him, eventually finding one with some drink left in it. He knocked it back, grimacing at the taste. "S'not everyone willing to sit with a _damned drunken dog-lord_ ," he said, giving Sebastian a curious look.

Sebastian shrugged in answer. The man's attention had already wandered elsewhere, as he tried to wave down the waitress to bring him another bottle.

He'd been a handsome man once, Sebastian found himself thinking, looking past the signs of dissipation. And a strong one; he was still built like an ox, shoulders wider than Sebastian's own. Presumably he knew how to use the sword and shield leaning against the wall nearby, or he'd not have any money with which to pay for drink.

He thought at first the shield was undecorated, then as he sipped his drink again noticed a flash of blue and white colour through a tear in the plain canvas cover, and wondered momentarily what device the cover hid. Wondered, too, whether the sword in the severely plain scabbard behind it was a cheap blade or a good one. Wondered what had led to this man living out his days in the Hanged Man, trying to drink himself into oblivion, his past forgotten.

"Sebastian!" a voice called out loudly, and he turned to see Hawke crossing the room, a tired-looking Varric at his side, Fenris looking annoyed - as he always seemed to after being on one of Hawke's adventures - and Isabela amused behind him. "Come to join us for cards?"

"Yes," he answered agreeably, and rose to his feet, smiling, and walked over to join Hawke and the rest, the drunkard and his past already forgotten, at least for now.


	12. Mostly Loghain Ask Fics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The "reblog if you want a fic in your Ask Box" meme was going around again today. Since this was Loghain Fan Week on dragonagefanweek on Tumblr, I did most of these as little Loghain stories.

He stood by the fireplace, cup in hand. How had it come to this? The hope they'd all felt so many years ago, the youthful enthusiasm that had carried them through so many dark times and dark places, the joy when they'd freed Ferelden from her Orlesian occupiers. All come down to this; Rowan long-dead, Maric disappeared, their son fallen to darkspawn. The line of Theirin _ended_ , even Maric's bastard son dead at Ostagar. And him left behind, to try and keep Maric's dream alive, with no one left.

* * *

Cold rain, and the memory of cold, cutting words. "If you hadn't come after me, you might have made a difference in that battle. At the very least, you might have gotten more of them out alive." Cold rain, and a cold feeling stealing over his heart, his limbs, as he watched far more darkspawn than they'd expected streaming endlessly out of the woods. Cold rain, and a coldness in his voice as he gave the necessary orders, curt even with Cauthrien. Cold rain, and a coldness that never left him.

* * *

He rolled over in bed, groping for the warm body that should have been there, and frowned when his hand found nothing but a depression in the mattress, a hint of warmth still lingering there. A faint scuff made him raise his head, peer at the moonlit form by the window - Anders, just fastening the feathered mantle of his robes around too-narrow shoulders. "Anders?" he whispered. The mage walked over, leaning down to brush a kiss over his lips. "Go back to sleep," he said soothingly, and left.

* * *

There are moments he especially remembers. Some because later events revealed how important they were, such as his chance encounter with a lost young man about his own age in the woods near Lothering. Some because of how intense the emotion associated with them was - that first time with Rowan, in the darkness of the Deep Roads. Some because of how much they _hurt_ \- the death of Celia, the disappearance of Maric. And some because he could not forget, no matter how much he might wish to.

* * *

It was rare for Loghain to find himself with nothing to do. No soldiers to inspect or train, no letters to help Prince Cailan to answer, no appeals from the populace to investigate, no armour in need of polishing, or sword in need of sharpening. He sat in a chair in the sun in the garden off of his rooms, so rarely enjoyed but always beautifully maintained. Sat in the sun, and read, with a goblet of wine at his side. He would always remember, later, how beautiful a day it was until word arrived.

* * *

His daughter has vanished. His daughter has vanished, and Ser Cauthrien is off sniffing after word of the Wardens and cannot be diverted to this search. Arl Howe has promised to have his guards keep a look out for her, promised that if she is still in the city, she will be found, but he is no longer sure he trusts the man. In less than a year Rendon has gone from a minor Arl to controlling both Highever and Denerim, and the only thing Loghain is sure of any more is that his daughter is missing.

* * *

He had been wrong. So very, terribly wrong, he thought, as he watched the dragon circling overhead. Not just a dragon, which would have been bad enough, but the Archdemon. He glanced to one side, where the Warden stood silently, also watching their enemy in flight. He thought back to Riordan's words the night before, of what it would cost to kill this beast, and glanced over at the Warden. "If it comes down to both of us - I claim the kill," he rasped out. The Warden looked at him, then nodded.

* * *

He finds it ironic that he now fights with a sword and shield, in heavy armour, he who started out as a poacher in leathers with a bow. He is still good with a bow, and misses using one, but as general of the armies of Ferelden it is expected that he will be a visible figure on the battlefield, at front and centre where he prefers, or further back and issuing orders from where he is kept safe, as his aide Ser Cauthrien prefers. No longer is he free to skulk around the edges, to kill from cover.

* * *

He was sickened and ashamed to see the dungeons under Howe's estate. Sickened at what the presence of these dungeons said about both the tastes of Arl Rendon and Arl Urien, whose estate this had been until Urien died at Ostagar, his son vanished. Sickened because he had trusted Howe, had not known to what depths of depravity he had sunk. And ashamed, because he wasn't sure if he had truly not known, or had merely ignored warning signs he might otherwise have seen, in his desperation for allies.

* * *

Fenris came to a sudden stop in the doorway to his room. Someone had been here; the bed, left a comfortable nest of blankets this morning, was now made. The room had been cleaned, surfaces dusted, cobwebs brushed down. It smelled of soap instead of the usual musty smell of dust and mildew, rot and himself. A fire burned in the fireplace, and bread and cheese waited on the table beside a bottle of wine. He shifted uneasily, wondering who had done this. He stood, uncertain. To enter, or to flee...

* * *

Karl laughed in startlement, as Anders nuzzled into his beard. "What are you _doing_ ," he asked.

"Mmmm," Anders hummed, sticking his nose right into the soft flesh under the hinge of Karl's jaw, and drew in a long audible breath through his nose. "I like the way your beard smells."

Karl blinked, and then chuckled, a deeply amused sound. "My beard does not smell," he said severely. "It's freshly washed."

"It _does_ smell," the younger mage insisted, smiling. "Like tea and wood shavings and you."

* * *

It was a day made for good memories. A beautiful early summer day, warm but not hot, with just enough breeze to keep off the bugs. He and Celia packed a picnic lunch, and walked up the river, away from Gwaren, abandoning all responsibility for the day. They ate their meal in the shade of a willow on the river's bank, and made slow love there, hidden by the drooping branches. Afterwards, as they cuddled together, Celia smiled and told him that she was pregnant, laughing when he whooped with joy.

* * *

He had not wanted to believe, when the first rumours reached Denerim. But then the first official messenger came, with word from the bann of the small coastal seahold off whose shores the disaster had happened, and a week later, the least-injured of the surviving crew arrived by ship. Even then he did not want to believe. No one had _seen_ Maric die, and therefore he could not be dead. He never stopped believing that King Maric yet lived, even after they crowned young Cailan. It was inconceivable.

* * *

He never got used to Hawke's casual attitude to nakedness. He knew the man had a perfectly serviceable robe, but since they'd become lovers the man rarely wore it. He'd walk in, and find Hawke lounging naked on the bed, or stretched out on his stomach on the fur rug in front of the fire; even reading, naked, in the more comfortable of the two armchairs. It was only later that he realized Hawke perhaps had an ulterior motive, a method, behind his nakedness. The two of them, naked, in Hawke's bed.


	13. Ask Box Ficlets 5

**Alistair, Morrigan - the (word of your own choosing) is strong in this one.**

"Oghren!" Morrigan exclaimed angrily. "Do you __mind!__ "

"Yes, I do mind, actually. That wasn't me," the dwarf pointed out. "I'd give it at least an eight on a scale of one to ten though."

Morrigan snorted, and continued walking, picking up the pace, the others perforce hurrying along after her. She stopped abruptly, frowning around at the landscape, trying to pick out the path back to their camp.

There was a short reverberant sound, and a truly pungent odour enveloped them, drawing a curse from Morrigan and a laugh from the dwarf, as he waved one hand in front of his face. Alistair turned bright red.

" _ _Alistair!__ " Morrigan exclaimed.

"Wasn't me. It was the dog," Alistair hurriedly exclaimed.

Morrigan grabbed Alistair by the arm and dragged him several steps, away from the lingering noxious cloud. "You've been feeding him cheese again, haven't you?" she demanded angrily.

"Errr… yes?"

"You've been __told__ the effect it has on him!" she snapped. "More than once, as I recall!"

"Errr… yes. But he likes it so much!"

Another particularly juicy-sounding fart sounded. Morrigan glared at Alistair, then down at the dog, then turned and stalked even further away. She turned, and pointed a finger at Alistair. " _ _You__ can be the one to keep him away from camp this evening. And clean up any messes he makes!" she ordered, then turned and continued on to camp, radiating offended anger.

Oghren walked by the man and dog, still laughing. "I'll let the Warden know you two are camping out tonight," he said jovially, and shook his head as he walked away. "The gas is strong in this one."

* * *

**Anders and Isabela, bonding with each other.**

"So she shot you down too, hmmm?" Isabela asked, leaning against the bar beside where Anders stood hunched over a glass of what Corff chose to call whiskey, though anyone else would have called it back alley rotgut.

"Yes," Anders said miserably, then gave Isabela a startled look. "Too?"

"Surely it's no surprise to you that I was interested in Hawke as well?"

Anders sighed. "I suppose not. She… she told me she was sorry, but she has a __thing__ for elves. I suppose she means Fenris."

"Fenris? No… she shot him down two days ago!" Isabela said, surprised.

They exchanged a look. " _ _Merrill__ ," they both exclaimed.

"Damn…" Isabela muttered. "I was thinking of trying for her. I suppose I can strike that plan."

Anders laughed. "Well, there's always Ser Broody-Pants."

Isabela smirked. "Not so broody once you get those pants off him, just so you know," she said, and winked.

* * *

**Arishok, Hawke, Fenris - drinking songs**

It had seemed a good idea at the time, but then as exhausted as Hawke was after a day on the Wounded Coast, and as worried as he'd been over what the Arishok's reaction would be to the latest round of qunari dead at Hawke's hands, anything that didn't involve the Arishok tearing him limb from limb or doing anything nastily bloody with that great sword of his had sounded good. He could no longer remember who had suggested the game, though he had a sneaking suspicion that it was he himself who had suggested replacing the stones on the three-sided board with shot glasses full of something interesting.

And now, some two hours of furious play later, he could no longer remember the rules of the game, and who was winning or loosing, but it didn't seem to matter. He also wasn't sure whose turn it was any more, but that didn't matter either, since the three of them were too busy singing to pay much attention to their game.

"…I'm a Tal'Vashoth and I'm okay…" The Arishok had a surprisingly pleasant voice, deep and gravelly, and if he hadn't been the size of a grizzly bear and undoubtedly hung like a bull, Hawke wouldn't have minded attempting a closer acquaintance with the source of such a lovely voice. He would just have to comfort himself with the thought of trying to get Fenris, some time later in the evening, when they finally went home, to make all the lovely sounds his fevered imagination was filling his head with.

Fenris, too, was singing quite beautifully. "Because the old black rum's got a hold on me, like a dog wrapped round my leg…"

Hawke just hoped his own voice was up to snuff. "…but the hedgehog can never be buggered at all!" he sang loudly.

They sounded just lovely, he was sure.


	14. Ask Box Ficlets 6 - Karl Thekla Fan Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Karl Thekla ficlets from this chapter have been moved to a separate collection, as they are all part of my Karl/Anders/Niall/Jowan continuity of ficlets.

**Fenris, Anders, Sebastian... Chant of Light**

Sebastian walked in the door, and stopped. As late as it was, the nave was filled with light, as it always was - the light of many candles, filling the air with warmth and a faint scent of honey, the light reflecting off the smooth curves of the great statue at the end of the nave. Sebastian swallowed, staring up at that so-calm face. As terrible as the events of the last few hours had been, of seeing what had been done to Leandra Hawke, that lovely, pious woman, he half-expected the expression on the statue's face to have changed in some way, to reflect his own great distress.

He walked slowly forward, and stood staring up at the statue for a long moment. How could __any__ grace and beauty continue to exist in the same world as a man who could do what had been done to all those poor women?

He drew a long shuddering breath and walked forward, still staring up at the statue as his fingers reached for and unerringly closed on an unlit red-dyed candle in the baskets of such that sat ready for any who wished to take one and say a prayer. He walked forward, only finally dropping his gaze as he reached the ranks of such candles already standing in lit ranks around the base of the raised area where the statue stood. Only then did he drop his gaze, to light the candle and add it the ranks already there. He swallowed once, twice, then began to speak.

_Maker, my enemies are abundant._  
 _Many are those who rise up against me._  
 _But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,_  
 _Should they set themselves against me._

As he spoke he heard the soft scuff of bare feet coming closer. He was unsurprised when Fenris appeared at his side, hands closed uneasily around one of the larger candles. The elf met his eyes, briefly, dipped his head, and lit the candle, then joined him in the chant.

_Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,_  
 _I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm._  
 _I shall endure._  
 _What you have created, no one can tear asunder._

They spoke on, working their way through the Canticle of Trials together, Sebastian's voice even and steady, Fenris uncertain. They were nearing the end when a third pair of footsteps approach, and a third form joined them, the apostate crouching down to place a third candle with their two. His face was grim, his cheeks tear-stained, but his voice was as steady as Sebastian's as he joined them in the chant.

_Though all before me is shadow,_  
 _Yet shall the Maker be my guide._  
 _I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond._  
 _For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light_  
 _And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost._

Sebastian felt tears rising to his eyes at the sound of their voices lifted together, there in the otherwise silent chantry, on this night that Leandra Hawke had died. They kept on together, to the end, Fenris unashamedly weeping by the time they'd reached the final verse.

_Draw your last breath, my friends,_  
 _Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky._  
 _Rest at the Maker's right hand,_  
 _And be Forgiven._

They fell silent then. Sebastian put his hand on Fenris' shoulder, squeezed it comfortingly, then looked to Anders. The mage nodded to him, once, then turned and walked away, shoulders hunched within his feathered mantle, the chantry silent once again save for the sound of his receding footsteps.

* * *

**Nathaniel/Zevran. Amaranthine visit**

Nathaniel checked the mark burned into the wood of the crate, nodded, and put another tick mark on his list before signalling for the stevedores to take it over to be loaded on the cart of supplies for Vigil's Keep. "That's almost all of it, there should be two more bales of tanned wyvern hides, and a crate of tea, and then we're done," he remarked to the cargo master.

"I don't suppose you can add one Antivan Crow to your manifest, hmmm?" a voice said from behind Nathaniel - from surprisingly close behind, a fact that had him spinning around, a knife in hand, before he realized he recognized the voice.

"Zevran!" he exclaimed.

"In the flesh," the assassin said, grinning broadly at him.

"Oh, _Maker_ … Lock up the women! Lock up the men, too!" Nathaniel intoned loudly, then grinned at the elf. "What are you doing back in Ferelden? I seem to recall you saying you'd had enough of snow, rain, hail, sleet, and dogs."

Zevran grinned. "It is almost summer now, is it not? And far too stiflingly hot in Antiva. Also, there are too many Crows there. I have decided it would be an excellent time to come and visit the Commander again, at least for a few months."

Nathaniel snorted, then smiled at the other rogue. "Well, I'm sure we can find room for you on the cart. And I'm also sure the others will be pleased to see you back at the Keep again."

"The others? And not yourself? How sad, and here I thought we were such good friends," Zevran said, putting on a woe-be-gone face.

Nathaniel smiled. "I suppose I'm glad to see you back as well. Go on now, go find a seat on the cart - I'll be done here shortly."

Zevran nodded, and walked off, whistling some jaunty Antivan tune as he went. Nathaniel found himself grinning as he turned back to his work. Whatever else could be said of Zevran, he certainly made things a lot more _interesting_ whenever he happened to be around.

* * *

**Two people.. scoring that amount of points (69)**

Isabela had been watching the game attentively for several minutes. She suddenly smiled. "What's your score, Hawke?" she asked loudly.

He didn't even glance up, busily concentrating on his cards as he was. "I'm up 69 points at the moment," he said distractedly.

It took quite a while for Isabela to explain to Merrill, later that evening, why everyone had laughed so hard at his comment.


	15. Ask Box Ficlets 7

**Cauth/Nate – the high seas**

"I thought you said you'd been to sea before?" Cauthrien asked, frowning at Nate.

"Yes, on my way to and from the Free Marches," he rasped out, before turning away to empty his stomach over the side again. Cauthrien waited patiently until he straightened again, looking even paler than usual. "Those were both short crossings on calm days," he continued. "Not cruising along Ferelden's shore in rough weather."

"This is hardly rough weather," Cauthrien said, glancing up at the overcast sky, then to the wind-whipped waves around the ship. "Rough weather is what we'll be having by nightfall, unless I miss my guess."

Nathaniel moaned, and turned away to purge his stomach some more.

"Poor boy," she said, a note of amusement in her voice. "Shall I get you something to make it better?"

He shot her a glare, the slight difference in their ages - eight years, with he the younger - being a sore point with him. " _Don't_ make any suggestions," he growled out. "Half the crew had already been by to espouse the benefits of salt beef, fat pork, or…" he paused to gulp for a moment. "Smoked fish."

She laughed. "I'll leave you to your misery then," she told him. "Though I promise it does get better. Eventually. And almost nobody ever dies of sea-sickness. You just wish you would."

"Almost nobody?" he asked, a touch worriedly.

" _Do_ be careful not to fall overboard," she said, then turned and walked off, a grin on her face.

* * *

**Arishok, Merrill, unafraid**

The Arishok stared down at the elf that had just wandered into his path, wondering what she was doing within the compound. She was not one of the __viddathari__ , the elves who had recently converted to the Qun - he had seen those, and none had looked like this female, nor had they stood with such self-assurance and fearlessness among the qunari as this creature showed, as his guards quickly moved to surround her. He tilted his head slightly, frowning down at her, signalling at his guards to remain where they were. He saw no danger in such a slight and fragile-seeming creature.

"Oh! Sorry, I should watch where I'm going," she said, smiling cheerfully up at him. "I almost bumped into you. That would have hurt… me, not you, I don't know if you'd have even noticed," she exclaimed, and laughed merrily.

"And who are you, basra?"

"Merrill," she answered. "My, you're a big one! Are you the Arishok? I remember Hawke talking about what big horns you have…"

"You know Hawke?" he asked, mildly surprised that this seeming __imekari__ , this child-like creature, could be a companion of the man.

"Oh yes. He's a friend of mine. I help him sometimes, when he goes adventuring. Anyway, I seem to have gotten lost… I should have used my ball of string, but I lost that too. You'd think that would be hard to do, as small as my home is, but I've managed it. Anyway, I got turned around, and ended up in here and now I can't seem to find my way out again…"

"I see," he said, interrupting her stream of babble, and signalled to one of the guards hovering nearby. "Show her to the gate," he ordered. She thanked him profusely, then followed the guard away. He watched until she was out of sight, frowning slightly, then continued on towards his tent, lost in thought as he considered the elf.

Her fearless distrubed him, he realized. She had been entirely unafraid, even when she'd found herself surrounded by several qunari, all much larger and stronger than she was. And her childlike flightiness had convinced him to let her leave without first enquiring more closely as to just __how__ she'd ended up in the heart of their closely guarded compound. He regretted that now, too late, as he wondered if she was as childlike as she'd appeared, or a master of illusion. If she was truly a companion of Hawke's… then, he suspected, it was more likely the latter.

* * *

**Shale? Maybe with someone not from Origins? Or a kitten?**

Shale had gone for a walk; more to get away from the pestiferous painted elf and his incessant talking than for any actual need to ambulate about the landscape. She had spent a refreshing time standing motionless in a corn field, waiting for the black birds that the elf's ridiculous organization was named after to land nearby, then doing her best to stomp on them. She had only succeeded once - the crows were unfortunately as good at sensing and dodging attacks as the Crow himself was - but the resultant cut-off squawk had been very cathartic.

She cut through the deserted ruins of the village on her way back to camp, not bothered by the sights there, or by the terrible smells that her fleshbag companions had complained of when they'd first come across the darkspawn-despoiled place earlier that day. The place was swarming with more feathered fiends, and she took a certain pleasure in scaring them off. __It__ had spoken of gathering up the dead and burning them; Shale wasn't particularly concerned about the disposal of the no-longer-living, but decided to volunteer her services for the task, as a means of getting back at the blighted birds.

She had paused to consider what would be involved in such work, and whether or not she'd be able to complete the job overnight rather than standing around with nothing to do while __it__ and its companions slept. The birds, lulled by her motionlessness, returned again. A cluster of them began to squabble in an alley nearby, fighting over food she supposed. Shale would have ignored them, except she heard a decidedly un-birdlike sound come from the alley, and realized her sworn foes were tormenting some other creature.

A quick dash their direction drove them off, revealing a wooden crate propped against the wall, the sounds coming from beneath it. She lifted the crate away, and found herself looking down at furry creature of some kind, with a mottled fluffy grey coat not far off the tone of her own rocky exterior. It stared up at her out of very blue eyes, mouth opening as it made an odd mewling sound, revealing a very pink mouth and tongue, filled with small but impressively sharp teeth. Shale blinked. A cat. A baby cat - a kitten. She remembered cats fondly from Honnleigh. They'd liked to hunt and kill birds, and more than once had saved her from the flocks of her arch-nemesis. And they were otherwise usually decently quiet, apart from when breeding. There had been one for some years that often came and napped on her shoulder in the sun, and as long as it slept she'd been blessedly bird-free…

She reached down, carefully picking up the little furry creature. It promptly crouched down in her hands, a surprisingly deep rumble emitting from it that she could feel shivering through the stone of her fingers. The sound increased in volume when she tentatively ran a fingertip down its back.

She would keep it, she decided, and it could help her to hunt birds, once it was big enough. The crows forgotten for now, she continued on to camp, the kitten carefully cupped in her hand. She hoped __it__ would know what to feed it.


	16. Ask Box Ficlets 8

**Sandal/The Mabari – Getting Into Trouble**

Hawke had gone upstairs to bed, taking Isabela with him and leaving S'mutt behind. The mabari sat at the foot of the stairs, staring upwards, and whined softly.

A soft scuffing sound drew his attention, and he looked back to see the bright-haired younger dwarf standing by the door, looking attentively at him. The boy smiled hopefully, and opened the door. S'mutt rose to his feet, wagged his tail, and followed Sandal away.

Hawke came downstairs the next morning to find S'mutt and Sandal sleeping before the fire, curled up back to back on the carpet, both of them - and the carpet - coated with mud. Not just one kind of mud, either, but two distinct types, neither of which could be found in the city itself. Most of it was a thick, sticky, red clay mud that Hawke knew from experience was a bitch to clean off of anything, especially once it dried into cement-like pellets as some of it was already doing. But even worse was the silty black mud, reeking of sulphur, and apt to stain indelibly anything it came into contact with, that they were both liberally daubed with.

"Sandal! S'mutt! What __have__ you two been up to!" Hawke exclaimed, exasperated. It was only as the two sat up and blinked their equally blue eyes at him that he thought to wonder about the presence of the fire, crackling away as if freshly lit… right before a startling big and equally bright blue eye opened among the flickering flames, and he suddenly saw the very __large__ flame-coloured salamander curled up in the grate.

* * *

**Alistair/Sten – Rubber Duck**

"And the purpose of this object is…?" Sten asked, frowning down at the brightly coloured bird-like thing floating around in the water by his waist.

Alistair gave him a look of incomprehension. "It's a rubber duck. You have to have one when you bathe."

Sten stared down at it, then looked at Alistair again. "Why?"

Alistair gaped at him. "You… just… you __do__ , that's all! __Everyone__ bathes with a rubber duck!"

Sten looked at him blankly, then picked up the object between two fingers, staring into its painted-on eyes for a long moment. His grip tightened slightly, and it made a moist sputtering sound followed by a mournful squeak. " _ _I__ do not bathe with a rubber duck," he said peremptorily, and tossed it out of the bath onto the tile floor.

"Nor do I, usually," Zevran said, a grin on his face at Alistair's open-mouthed, flabbergasted expression, then leaned backwards and made a long arm to pick up the duck from the floor. "But I will make an exception since it seems to mean so much to Alistair," he added, and held out the duck to Alistair with a gallant bow.

Alistair snatched it from his hands, and cupped it protectively against his chest, his lower lip pouting out in a way that was rather disconcerting to see in a grown man. " _ _You're__ making fun of me, or humouring me, or something mean like that," he said sulkily to Zevran, and then frowned sternly at Sten. "And __you__ just don't know anything about proper, civilized bathing!"

That said, he turned his back and waded to the far end of the communal pool, radiating offended sensibilities and taking his rubber duck with him.

Sten frowned, and looked at Zevran, puzzled. "I do not understand…?"

Zevran laughed quietly. "A part of the bathing ritual of young humans," he explained, and grinned again. "One I am very surprised our friend has not yet outgrown. I will explain it to you in more detail later."

Sten looked mildly surprised. "A ritual? I will be curious to hear your explanation of it, then."

* * *

**Anders/Sebastian – Never, Ever Aim Like This**

"Trick shots?" Sebastian said, an edge of disbelief in his voice, looking over his shoulder to where Anders lounged against the wall nearby, waiting for Hawke to finished speaking to Grand Cleric Elthina and re-emerge.

"Yes, you know, like aim the arrow so it bounces off of something and __then__ hits that target? Or, I don't know, fire it behind your back?"

Sebastian stared at him for a long moment. "I can't picture how that would even __work__ ," he said. "Arrows usually don't bounce. And when they __do__ get deflected, it's generally in a pretty random direction. As far as firing it behind your back…" he paused, and shook his head, then a slight smile lifted his lips. "Well, I knew one young lady once who might have been flexible enough to manage that, but it wasn't bows she was interested in bending."

Anders stared at him a moment, then gave a short laugh, and walked a few steps forward, as much disbelief in his laugh as had been in Sebastian's voice a moment before. "That was a joke, wasn't it? You made a joke! A __suggestive__ one!"

Sebastian flushed slightly, but smiled. "I'm not an innocent, you know," he pointed out, dryly. "Far from it. Anyway, no, I can't do 'trick shots' with my bow. What about you and your magic?"

Anders grinned. "I thought you'd never ask," he said, and turned his back so fast his robes whirled out, one hand stabbing backwards over the opposite shoulder.

The practise dummy didn't survive the demonstration. Sebastian did; he had excellent reflexes about when to duck.

* * *

**Fenris/Anders - Show Tunes**

"Is the costume really necessary, mage?" Fenris snapped.

"Yes, it really is. Is my tail on straight?" Anders asked worriedly.

"Yes. And there's our cue," Fenris pointed out.

Anders gave a horrified squeak, and hurried out onto the stage, taking a pose in the middle of the stage while Fenris entered at a more stately pace, ignoring the fluffy tail and ears attached to his clothing.

As the music swelled, Anders began to sing.

" _Memory, all alone in the moonlight. I can smile at the old days, I was beautiful then._ _I remember the time I knew what happiness was, let the memory live again._ _Every streetlamp seems to beat a fatalistic warning. Someone mutters, and the streetlamp gutters, and soon it will be morning._ "

His section ended and he dropped into a mournful posture, when Fenris stepped forward and began to sing his part, his deeper voice feeling the hall.

_"Daylight, I must wait for the sunrise, I must think of a new life, and I musn't give in._ _When the dawn comes tonight will be a memory too, and a new day will begin._ _Burnt out ends of smoky days, the stale cold smell of morning. The streetlamp dies, another night is over, another day is dawning._

And then the two of them moved to stand side by side, and sang together, while holding hands.

_"Touch me! It's so easy to leave me, all alone with the memory of my days in the sun. If you touch me you'll understand what happiness is._ _Look, a new day has begun!"_

There was a lasting silence after the last few notes trailed off. Then thunderous applause, as the two bowed, and left the stage.

( _"Memory" from Cats_ )

* * *

**May I have a pudding prompt please?**

There are some sights too horrid for men to stand for long and remain sane. Broodmothers. The Archdemon's gaze. Childer grubs. Oghren on the morning after a particularly rough night of drinking.

Among those sights of horror, one that would always be remembered with a shudder, at least among those who had the misfortune to be present for it, was the night Bodahn and Sandal stopped in Vigil's Keep on their way to take ship from Amaranthine to Kirkwall.

Just mention of the word "Enchantment!" would have seasoned, veteran Grey Wardens quaking with terror, at the memory of that night's pudding, and the fight it had taken to defeat the beast.


	17. Ask Box Ficlets 9

**Anders, Alistair, colour. "I expected better from you!"**

The colour of eyes, both a warm honey-brown. The colour of skin, tanned dark by time spent in the sun, washed pale by time spent indoors, bent over books. The colour of hair, short-cropped dirty blond and longer red-blond, pulled back in a stubby ponytail. The colour of gold; gold-washed armour, a gold earring, gold trim on a robe, varitoned gold hair and eyes and skin.

They looked each other over from head to foot, the ex-lover and the current one, while __she__ waited patiently for them to get it over with, ebon-haired head tilted slightly to the side, jade green eyes watchful, as they postured and positioned. She had worried about them meeting. Worried about their reaction to each other. Had scathing words ready to say, if it became necessary - "I expected better from you!"

But they did not need to be said; the two men met her expectations of them. A slight relaxation in Alistair's posture; a slight nod from Anders. Silent acknowledgement that the direction of her affections would not become an item of contention between the two. They turned to her, and both smiled then, widely, her two beautiful golden men.

"Shall we go in?" she said, stepping forward, and smiled as she linked arms with them, her hands resting on their forearms, hard armour on the left and soft cloth on the right, equally warm from the bodies within.

"I don't know," Alistair said, eyes glinting mischievously. He looked over her head at Anders. "What do you think?"

"I think dinner is on the table, and I'm starving," the mage replied.

They laughed, Grey Wardens all, and went in to dinner together.

* * *

**Anders, Fenris, rubber ball. "I would never have imagined this about you two..."**

Fenris bent down, and picked up something off of the ground, from a pile of detritus near the wall. He gave it a slightly perplexed look as he turned it over in his hand. A rubber ball. He could remember seeing ones like it before; in the jungles of Seheron, among the Fog Warriors. They collected a thick milky sap called __caoutchouc__ from certain trees, and boiled it, then built it up in layers around a hard core - usually a nut or a stone - until they had a fist-sized round hard ball, used for play among adults and children alike.

As he resumed following along behind Hawke and the others - Varric, and the apostate - He wondered how this ball had come to be here, deep in a smuggler's cave on the Wounded Coast. A few minutes later he came to a stop, staring, then leaned down and picked up a second one.

Huh. That was decidedly strange. He resumed walking, one in each hand, slowly rolling them over and over in his fingers, feeling their surfaces. Smooth in some spots, roughened in others, and almost tacky to the touch, yet stuff did not stick to them. An odd material. He smiled faintly, remembering the time he'd spent learning some of the games the Fog Warriors played with them, either with the balls alone, or with the additional of flat paddles or long scoops carved of wood, or small nets on the end of long sticks. Dangerous games, some of them, with injuries from accidental blows a frequent occurence.

"What's that you have there?" Anders asked, having dropped back to walk beside him, and peering curiously at them. He reached out to take the one from Fenris' closest hand, without asking.

Fenris flinched away, snarling out a curse as he clutched the balls protectively close to his chest, his brands flaring bright in startled reaction.

Hawke, walking along at the front beside Varric, turned and frowned at the two of them. "Play nice, boys! What's wrong, Fenris?"

"The mage tried to grab my balls," Fenris spat out, glaring at Anders.

Varric laughed, and shifted Bianca on his shoulder.

Hawke grinned widely. "I would never have imagined this about you two..."

* * *

**Nathaniel/Oghren - The smell of justice is...**

The air stunk of burnt flesh, spilled guts, and rotting blood. Flies and carrion birds were thick, the softer parts of the corpses already falling victim to them.

Oghren stared at the ugly carnage, for once at a loss for words. Silently he removed the flask at his belt, gulped back half of it, then thrust the flask at Nathaniel, pushing it into the man's hands when Howe failed to take it. "Drink," he said, brusquely. "You need it."

Nathaniel didn't argue, just lifted it to pale lips and drank, one gulp, two, three, before lowering it with a sputter and cough. His eyes were streaming as he handed the flask back to the dwarf. "What __is__ that stuff!" he asked between gasps for air, then shook his head. "No. Don't bother telling me," he said, then turned his gaze back to the scattered bodies.

"I can't believe sparkle-fingers did this," Oghren said.

"I can," Nathaniel said, grimly, then pointed. "Look - templar armour. That _damned_ Rolan… he led him into a trap!"

Oghren nodded silently, jaw setting as he looked around the clearing. "All right. We gather up all these bodies, and give 'em a decent pyre. And then we go back to the Keep, and tell that Orlesian prig that it looks like templars tried to snatch the skirt-wearer, and that he and Rolan were both killed."

"But… Anders' body isn't here…" Nathaniel said, confused.

"Yeah, but he doesn't have to know that. When the commander returns we'll tell __her__ the truth, but for now, it's better if everything thinks he'd dead, isn't it?"

"I… don't like lying…" Nathaniel said uncertainly.

"Heh. Some rogue __you__ are. Look, we can either tell the truth, and have that sorry excuse for a Grey Warden sic the templars on Anders' trail himself, or we do the right thing and cover for sparkle-fingers until the commander returns. Leave the tall tales to me, son, you just nod your head and keep quiet, and look like you're in shock. Not that that'll be a hard job," he added, giving the rogue a surprisingly sympathetic look.

"Right," Nathaniel agreed, tonelessly.

The two set to work, gathering up the sad remains, each hoping that Anders, wherever he was, was all right.

* * *

**Dog/Ser Pounce-a-Lot - Meow! Grrrrr!**

Dandelion came to an abrupt stop, staring at the tiny ball of orange fluff curled up in the middle of the seat of __his__ favourite chair. He came to quivering attention, peering intently at it, ears and tail lifted, then slowly took a step closer, a near-subliminal growl escaping his throat, the hair lifting along the ridge of his back.

Blue eyes opened, and stared at him unblinkingly, then the creature yawned widely, its mouth displaying an impressive set of tiny sharp teeth, he noticed. Not prey then, like the rabbits he sometimes hunted. Vermin, perhaps, like the rats in the stables and basement? He eased closer, a stiff-legged step at a time, growl slowly rising in volume.

The creature rose to all four feet, arching its back, tail lifting and shuddering in the air. He froze again, having seen an animal do that before, right before it had turned its back and squirted him with a foul-smelling liquid. But this one merely continued to stretched, forequarters dropping while its forelegs stretched out, then rose again to all four legs before sitting down, tail wrapping around its paws. Its head tilted to one side, as it stared back at him.

He made a snort of distaste, and closed the final bit of space between him and the chair, growling again as he started to lean forward, meaning to take the impertinent thing in his mouth and deal with it as he would with any vermin - with a good neck-snapping shake, followed by tossing it aside.

The little thing __moved__ , rising up, one paw batting forward faster than his eyes could follow, though he certainly __felt__ it, as its paw connected solidly with his nose. He stopped, frozen again, astonished as the tiny creature settled back down, and, with every evidence of unconcern, began to lick at the paw it had just hit him with. Its eyes slitted half-closed in pleasure as it licked at the pads on the underside of its paw, then it stopped, its tiny blue eyes meeting his much larger brown ones, the tip of its pink little tongue still stuck out.

Claws slid out of hiding in the soft little paw. Long sharp ones. His ears and tail dropped as he imagined what it would have felt like if those nasty little claws had been out when its paw had connected him his nose. He whined worriedly, and dropped his chin to rest on the edge of the seat.

The orange thing rose to all four feet, and stalked forward. Dandelion remained still, watching as it loomed closer.

And then it began to purr, as it groomed his nose with its raspy little tongue.

"See, Commander?" I told you not to worry. Ser Pounce-A-Lot can take care of himself," Anders said, gesturing to the ratty armchair near the fire. Dandelion was curled up on the seat cushion, snoring into the fabric of the well-chewed arm, a small orange kitten stretched out on his side, purring loudly.

Kalli snorted, an amused smile crossing her lips. "I suppose he can," she had to agree.

Dandelion had woke and raised his head at the sound of voices. His tail lifted and dropped with a thump against the dusty cushion just once, acknowledging the presence of his person. He turned his head and nosed at the kitten before putting his head back down and closing his eyes again.

"You big softie," Kalli added with a smile, then led the way through the room to her office. She suppressed a grin as she moved to take a seat behind her desk, thinking of the dog and cat curled up together, and of how much she missed her favourite big softie, and his impressively armed little friend, and hoping the two would join her here soon.


	18. Ask Box Ficlets 10

**Something from Brennan, from the Kirkwall guard?**

"You must have the Maker's own luck," Donnic said, as he accepted the heavy satchel from Brennan.

"I do? Why?" she asked, surprised. "What do you mean?"

He lifted his bushy eyebrows, giving her a look of mild surprise. "You didn't hear? Aveline Vallen got concerned about a tip-off she got about a possible caravan raid last night. Took off with that fellow she knows, Hawke, and a bunch of his cronies, and they took out a whole passel of bandits along your route; if you'd encountered them alone, I doubt we'd be speaking right now."

"She did?" Brennan asked, paling as the significance his words sunk in. "Maker's breath... excuse me, I should go thank her," she said, and hurried off in search of the red-haired guard.

"Right. See you later," Donnic called, as he set off on his own patrol, the satchel in hand.

* * *

**Merrill/Bethany, How did you get up there?**

Bethany knocked on the door of Merrill's house, and waited, then knocked again. She frowned, and looked down at the ground; no string, the elf must be in, or nearby. She hesitated on the step, chewing her lip, debating whether or not to knock a third time.

"I'm up here, Bethany," Merrill's voice called from somewhere overhead.

Bethany started in surprise, then peered upwards, turning around to peer at nearby rooftops, until movement in the vhenadahl caught her eye – Merrill, waving one arm at her, from where the elf was perched in the fork of a broad limb high overhead.

"How did you get up there?" Bethany called out, surprised. "For that matter, _why_ are you even up there!"

"The view! It's spectacular," Merrill called back. "You should come up and see!"

"The view...? But, isn't it wrong to climb the vhenadahl? Sacrilegious or something?"

"No, why would it be?" Merrill asked, looking perplexed. "It's just a tree. Come on up."

Bethany chewed on her lip, then dropped her eyes to study the trunk. She couldn't see how Merrill had managed to climb it; there weren't even any branches until high overhead. "I'm sorry, I don't think I can climb that," she called, dubiously.

"Oh. Well, I'll come back down then," Merrill called back matter-of-factly, and rose to her feet, all but skipping along the broad branch back to the trunk – a sight that made Bethany's stomach clench in fear of the drop the elf was so blithely ignoring – and from there descended the trunk, fingers and toes digging into the deep cracks between the plates of rough bark. She was back on solid ground in a remarkably short time, a wide smile on her face, her eyes aglow with pleasure.

"A pity you couldn't come up," she said gaily. "It's _beautiful_ from up there! Well, come on in, and I'll make tea for both of us."

"All right," Bethany said, faintly. She cast a second look up at the towering tree, shaking her head dubiously at the idea of willingly ascending to such a height, before following Merrill into her little house.

* * *

**Fenris/Anders, Anders has laryngitis, what will Fenris do to torment him when he can't talk back?**

The mage coughed, then coughed again, a raw hacking sound that made Fenris wince just to hear it.

"And I should be the one to look after him, why?" he asked Hawke, who was keeping Anders upright mainly by brute force, the mage's arm draped limply over the warrior's shoulder, Hawke's arms closed tightly around his waist to keep him more-or-less upright.

"Because I have to go out to Sundermount for a couple of days, and I'm taking Merrill, Varric and Isabela with me. I can hardly leave a sick mage with Sebastian in the chantry, or with Aveline in the guard barracks," Hawke said, a touch desperately, then pulled out his final card and made puppy-dog eyes at Fenris. " _Please?_ " he begged.

Fenris sighed. "Fine, bring him in," he growled, and stepped back from the door, allowing the other warrior to enter, hauling the mage with him. It took both of them together to get Anders upstairs and put to bed, Hawke running off a lengthy list of advice and instructions for how the fevered mage should be cared for. Fenris let most of it flow in one ear and out the other. He knew how to care for someone with a cold; he'd had more than a few of them himself, living in this blighted cold city in a house that had insufficient roof to keep out the weather.

He sneered silently at the mage – out cold as soon as he'd been tucked away in Fenris' bed – then scowled as he went over to build up the fire. More precious wood to use up, to keep the abomination warm. At least Hawke had brought a heavy pack of food and herbs with him, and given Fenris money to buy more in the market if he needed to.

He picked up his kettle, and headed off to draw water to brew some medicinal tea for the mage.

\---====---

By the next morning Anders' fever had broken, and the worst of his cough was gone. Fenris smiled slightly as he poured another mug of the medicinal tea for the mage, not bothering to ameliorate its bitter flavour with honey, as he would have if preparing it for himself. He carried it over and held it out to the mage. "Here. Drink," he ordered peremptorily.

Anders scowled at him, but levered himself up on one elbow, and reached out to take it from Fenris' hand, making faces as he sipped at it. He tried to say something – doubtless a complaint about the flavour – but nothing emerged from his mouth except a tired whisper of sound, his voice worn out entirely from coughing.

A slight smirk crossed Fenris' lips. "You're almost tolerable this way," he said. "Unable to answer back, and helpless."

That won a definite glare from Anders. He carefully set the mug down on the bed, then lifted his hand, sparks of electricity dancing around his cupped fingers.

Fenris snorted. "Don't threaten _me_ , mage," he said. "Thanks to one of your kind, I'm very apt at killing mages. Now finished your medicine, or I'll pour it down your throat."

Anders scowled again, but dismissed the spell and picked up the mug, obediently drinking.

Fenris settled back in his chair, and wondered what other little ways than unsweetened tea he could use to subtlety torment the man. Things that he would sound childish to complain to Hawke about.

He wondered if they had any Anderfels ham in the market. Salt as the sea, and tasting of despair...

* * *

**Will you Isabela/Aveline for me? *bats eyelashes***

"Hold _still_ ," Isabela hissed, exasperated, and took Aveline's chin in hand, gripping it firmly. "Pout your lips," she added.

Aveline scowled for a moment, then complied.

Isabela sighed and rolled her eyes. "Not as if you're sulking over someone speaking ill of your swordwork. Pout as if you're about to kiss someone."

Aveline snorted, but complied.

"Good girl," Isabela said, and leaned forward, face mere inches from Aveline's. "Mmmm. Perfect," she crooned, then abruptly leaned back, studying Aveline's face, before shaking her head. "That blush makes you look feverish," she declared, and brushed her fingers lightly over the other woman's cheeks. Then laughed. "I can hardly judge the effect if you _really_ blush, big girl," she said dryly.

"You're doing that on purpose, to make me uncomfortable," Aveline muttered uneasily.

"Would I do that? On your wedding day?"

"I wouldn't put it past you," Aveline said grimly.

Isabela sat back, and smiled warmly at the other woman with unusual warmth. "No. Believe me, I wish you all the best. Especially since you're lucky enough to be marrying for love," she added, and sighed. "I suppose I'm still a big soppy romantic at heart, even after how my own marriage turned out. Now, close your eyes so I can make them up too. When you get out there and bat your lashes at the boys, they're all going to have their tongues hanging out at how beautiful you are."

Aveline smiled nervously back at Isabela. "I'll settle for me not looking like something from a puppet show or a pantomime when you're done."

Isabela grinned. "I _promise_ , you'll look lovely," she assured the other woman. "Now close those eyes."


	19. Ask Box Ficlets 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was originally supposed to be one day of prompt filling, followed by an "Okay, just one more day of them..." has managed to stretch to four days in total. I do believe I need a break before I throw my Ask Box open for prompts again!

**Cousland/Zevran - Crimes and Misdemeanours**

Zevran backed slowly away from the other rogue, not liking the look in his eyes at all; hard and cold, like the twin daggers held in his hands.

"We can talk about this, yes?" he asked, nervously, right before his back came up against the wall behind him.

Aedan didn't answer, not in words anyway; instead, he lunged, reversing his grip on the daggers to plunge them into the wall to either side of Zevran's head, mere inches from his ears, his body slamming against that of the assassin, pinning him to the wall.

When he spoke, it was not to Zevran, but to the woman already scrambling out of the bed and frantically grabbing up her clothing. "Leave," he snarled over his shoulder, then turned to pin Zevran with icy blue eyes as much as hard muscular body.

The whore squeaked and fled, still naked, her belongings spilling from her arms as she scuttled out. At least she'd retained enough presence of mind to grab a few small valuables, Zevran thought approvingly as her naked backside vanished out the door, which closed with a slam behind her.

Echoed by another slam, as Aedan released the hilts of his daggers and slammed clenched fists into the wall to either side of them, before leaning forward and claiming Zevran's mouth with bruising force. The daggers so close to his sensitive ears kept him from struggling at all; not that he was at all inclined to do so, not when he had a decidedly dangerous man kissing him so forcefully, the press of body against his making it clear, even through Aedan's armour, just how passionately involved the man was in that moment.

He pressed his own hands flat to the wall, fighting the urge to touch, not certain how well the man would take it in that moment, as angry as he was. Instead he closed his eyes, and concentrated on the kiss. Accepting it, encouraging it even, letting lips and tongue and teeth tell Aedan how much he wanted him, how much he'd missed him. Calming him, finally, Aedan's hands relaxing from fists to drop down and caress the elf's naked sides.

Aedan drew back his head, looked at Zevran. "You..." he said, and broke off. He had never been good at words; action was more his style. But hands and eyes and body were saying what his voice could not. Words neither of them were able to say, yet as much as he might try to deny it to himself, Zevran knew what emotion this want and need between them represented. What he had tried to deny, tried to disprove to himself in seeking out the whore, though it had taken him all the days of Aedan's long absence to work up the nerve to carry it through.

Zevran gave in, and sighed softly, and smiled, before sliding one arm around the other man at last, holding him close, other hand reaching up to touch the days-long accumulation of scruff on the man's chin. "I am yours," he whispered hoarsely, then leaned forward to brush his own lips against the exposed bit of skin at the base of Aedan's throat, making an approving sound as the stocky man's arms closed tightly around him, edges of leather armour digging into naked skin. Accepting the discomfort, in exchange for the silent comfort of being held onto so desperately by the other.

Aedan drew a deep breath after a while, loosened his hold, leaning back to look at the elf. He snorted softly, his lips twisting in a small smile. "We _will_ talk of this later," he said, warningly, than let Zevran go, and led him to the bed.

* * *

**I'd love to see an Anders and Fenris fic, but NOT romance, and mirrors.**

Thunder muttered in the distance, an approaching storm. Fenris walked down the corridor of the mansion, feeling the cool breeze on his overheated skin. Summers in Minrathous were always hot; hot and sticky, the humidity of the nearby ocean making the whole place smell of the tide. Not a pleasant scent of clean salt water, as you might have on a ship out at sea, but all the stinks and filth of a great city meeting rotting fish and shellfish and dying seaweed. Only the powerless and the very powerful stayed in the city over the summer. Those too poor to leave, or enslaved and thereby unable to leave, and those powerful enough that they preferred to stay near the centres of power, even in the stink and heat, rather then risking the loss of any of that power by a retreat – however temporary – to some cool, sweet-scented country estate.

But this breeze was clean and cool, smelling only of the farmlands and vineyards to the south of the great city, and the feel of it on his bare skin as he walked the silent corridor was soothing.

Gauzy curtains billowed from open windows, admitting the breeze. Sometimes things moved behind the billows of fabric, gone again when the fabric flattened. Guards, their eyes watchful, faces rigidly forward though their eyes lingered on him as he passed, lusting after his forbidden flesh. A red-haired elven girl, oddly familiar as she crouched on the floor, eyes wide with some distress, the floor around her of pounded dirt, the walls of dusty clay, not the polished marble and gleaming woods that should be there. A magister, lips drawn in a cruel smile, polishing blood off the curved end of his staff. Hadriana, staring at him out of livid eyes, mouth opening on a scream as she arched backwards in death.

He was tempted to stop for that one, but his movement down the corridor continued, towards the large double doors at the end. His mouth dried with the knowledge of what waited behind those doors, heart beating in terror; both remembered terror and new terror. He didn't want this; didn't want to remember this; didn't want to relive it, wanted to turn and leave, _now_ , but he continued on still, towards the end of the corridor. Towards Danarius' room.

Movement to one side caught his attention. His eyes darted sideways, seeing a mirror on the wall. Not the large gilt-framed expanse of glass that should have been there, but a small sheet of well-polished metal, scratched and dinged in spots but still capable of reflecting a face. Enough for a man to shave in, if a man needed to.

Familiar honey-brown eyes met his. A puzzled look, then startlement. "You're dreaming again," the abomination said, calmly.

The doors at the end of the corridor slammed open, their impact with the walls echoing down the corridor. Danarius was there, enraged, power crackling around his hand as he lifted it, prepared to cast. Fenris moaned in fear, knowing what pain the spell would bring.

"Danarius is dead. That's just some passing demon," Anders' voice said, sounding mildly annoyed. Lightning crackled from the mirror, washing the corridor with blinding white light as it arched to strike Danarius, blowing him backwards into the rooms. The doors slammed shut again with a sound loud enough to set Fenris' ears ringing.

He started awake, heart thudding painfully in his chest. Thunder still echoed outside, rumbling through the streets of Kirkwall. A cool breeze blew in through the hole in the ceiling, soothing on his sweat-covered skin. Another flash of lightning, blindingly close, the crack of thunder almost on its heels. A hissing sound, and rain began to fall, some making its way through the gaping holes in the roof, quickly forming a puddle on the floor, mirroring the wall and windows and the broken ceiling overhead.

Fenris sighed, and stretched out again, enjoying the temporary respite from heat the summer storm had brought with it. The city would be just as hot and smelly tomorrow, and likely twice as sticky from the evaporating rain, but for now, it was cool and smelled only of clean rain. He returned to sleep, nightmare already forgotten.

* * *

**Anders/Alistair, colour – A continuation after dinner is devoured**

She leaned her head against Alistair's shoulder, wishing he'd worn simple clothing to dinner, and not his armour. But he'd wanted to look formal for his first dinner here at the keep, now that he'd finally been able to join her here, his temporary duties in Denerim ended with Anora's official ascension to the throne in her own right. And his gold-washed set of mail was certainly impressive, as was he in it. Still, cloth would have been nicer for leaning against.

"Come on," she said, quietly, watching her former second-in-command – now relegated to third with Alistair's arrival – where he stood at the far end of the dining hall, exchanging barbed quips with Oghren. "You enjoyed it when we spent that night on Isabela's ship, didn't you?"

"Well... yes," Alistair agreed, blushing slightly, and turned his head to look down at her, one hand rising to tuck a loose strand of silky black hair behind her pointed ear. "But neither of us had any history with her. And you do, with him. It'll be a little... odd, won't it?" he asked.

She smiled mischievously up at his earnest face. "Would it help at all if I mention that _he_ is the one who taught me that marvellous trick with electricity?" she asked, one eyebrow arching high, then turned to look down the length of the hall again.

Alistair followed her gaze. "Oh?" he said, a note of surprised interest in his voice. "Really?"

"Yes. Really. And that was _years_ ago. One has to wonder what additional little tricks he's picked up in the years since..."

Alistair sighed, then smiled at her. "You really want to do this? Both of us and you together?"

"Oh, _yes_ ," she murmured, voice low and husky. "Me in between you two big beautiful golden men... or better yet, watching while he teaches you a few things... he's always gone both ways," she added, and smiled warmly at Alistair. "Just _look_ at him, and picture it..."

He looked down the hall at Anders for a long moment, then turned back and looked searchingly at her face for a moment. Finally he swallowed, thickly. "All right," he agreed, voice a little strangled, ears turning bright red. "But _you_ have to be the one that invites him."

* * *

**Morrigan/Zevran - did you see what I saw or was it...?**

Zevran winced as a sharp elbow dug into his ribs, painful even through a layer of stiffened leather armour. He glanced to the side, at the dark-haired woman wiggling into place next to him.

"Move over," she mouthed, frowning ferociously at him.

He sighed – silently, as silently as she had spoken – and edged a bit to his left, allowing her to slide closer and peer out from underneath the bushes alongside him, in the narrow gap between two boulders on the rocky slope overlooking the pond.

"Oh," she said, very softly, and fell silent.

Zevran leaned his head back over to the right, angling for a better view of the activity down below. It put his head right beside hers. "He has a simply _marvellous_ ass," he whispered after a while of silent contemplation, barely breathing the words in her ear.

"It's not his ass _I'm_ looking at," she whispered back, a grin on her face. A grin that turned to a smirk as Zevran craned even further over for a better look.


	20. Ask Box Ficlets 12 - Rare Pairs Fan Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's "Rare Pair" week on the Dragon Age Fan Week community on Tumblr, and I love writing rare pairs, so I put out a call for prompts for same. Got enough to keep me pleasantly busy all day, and have more left over for filling tomorrow too!
> 
> Enjoy this gathering of uncommon or rare pairings! And if you know anyone (or you yourself) that writes or draws unusual combinations of characters, I highly encourage you to go submit links for same to the community.

**Anders/Varania**

He heard the crying before he saw her, huddled in one corner of the winding tunnels that passed for roads in Darktown. Broken sobs, with occasional great gasping breaths, the sounds of someone in pain. He sighed, and moved closer, seeing how her dress – so neat and tidy when he'd first seen her earlier that day – was now stained and torn, her red hair a mess, most of it having come loose from the stubby ponytail she wore it in. As he moved closer she flinched away, arms rising to shield her face. He frowned, seeing the bruise darkening one high cheekbone, remembering the blow that had caused it.

"Varania," he said, voice carefully neutral.

She looked up then, startled at being recognized. Her eyes – so like Fenris' in colour, the only feature they did seem to share – were filled with tears. He'd always been a sucker for tear-filled eyes, he thought, and held out one hand.

"Come with me," he said.

She looked dumbly at him, then at his hand, then at him again, before finally, hesitantly, reaching up and putting her slender hand in his. He drew her to her feet, frowning as he saw the blood running down her leg from a nasty-looking scrape on her knee.

"That will need cleaning," he said, concerned.

She looked down, as if only then becoming aware of the injury. "Oh," she said, faintly, and swayed.

He hurriedly shifted his grip from her hand to her arm, steading her, waiting until he was certain she could stand on her own before finally releasing her arm. "I have a clinic," he said. "Follow me." And turned away. He did not look back. He had moved several steps before she finally started following him. He led the way to the clinic in silence. He left the lamps unlit when they arrived; it was late, and he was tired after the fight in the Hanged Man. He held the door open, waiting while Varania looked in fearfully before finally entering.

"Sit," he said, gesturing to the row of cots, then walked over to the crude shelves where he kept what few medications and implements he had. He picked out a tin bowl, poured in a little water and some astringent soap, picked up a roll of bandage, then returned to her. She was sitting on the edge of the cot, looking around the room, brow wrinkled in perplexed thought. She turned back and watched closely, nervously, as he gently washed her abraded knee clean, spread the poultice on it, and bandaged it.

"You are a mage. One of the ones from earlier..." she abruptly said, as he was tying off the bandage.

"Yes."

"This is... yours?" she asked, gesturing vaguely at the dark, dingy room around them.

"Yes."

"You live elsewhere?" she said, almost more a statement rather than a question.

"No, I live here."

She looked around a second time, her frown deepening. "But you are a _mage_. In Tevinter, _slaves_ would be housed better than this!"

He settled back on his haunches, looked up at her. "We are not _in_ Tevinter. If all I cared about was the comfort of my housing, I would have stayed in the Circle. I am a runaway, an apostate; my priorities have more to do with my freedom than my comfort." He rose abruptly, carrying the bowl of dirtied water over to pour down the gaping crack in one corner of the floor that served as a drain, leading – to judge by the cold winds that sometimes whistled up it in winter – outside to the cliff face overlooking the harbour. "Freedom for _all_ mages, not just myself."

She stared at him. "I don't understand. Why are you helping me?"

He put the bowl back on its shelf. Then turned and looked back at her, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. "I don't know. Other than that you're hurt, and I'm a healer. And a mage, and I try to help other mages whenever I can, as long as..." he broke off, frowned. "Are you a blood mage?" he demanded sharply.

"No, I had not progressed so far yet. Danarius said..."

"Danarius is _dead_ ," Anders snapped out. "And blood magic is not _progress_. It is regression to baser impulses, seeking power to assuage fear rather than... never mind. I can see you don't understand what I'm talking about."

He frowned at her. "Do you plan to return to Tevinter, or is there somewhere else you wish to go?" he asked her.

She paled then, and looked away. "There is nothing left for me in Tevinter. Danarius was my last hope for proper training," she said, bitterly. "If I return, some other magister will doubtless take me – but not as an apprentice. As a thrall. Slaves with power are greatly valued for such purposes."

"I see. Well. You cannot stay here in Kirkwall. I think Fenris will kill you if he sees you again; only Hawke's influence on him saved you earlier. _Why_ did you betray your brother?" he asked. The one thing he found hard to understand in all this. "I know you were desperate, but..."

She laughed then, harshly. "My brother? My Leto _died_. That... that _creature_ may have his body, speak with his voice, look out the same eyes..." she paused a moment, voice cracking, and took a deep shuddering breath. "I saw him once, very briefly, before mother and I left. Hadriana snuck me in to see him, after I _begged_ her on my knees for one final moment to say good-bye. Only the creature I saw wasn't my brother; not anymore. He didn't remember me; didn't even recognize me. The boy I used to carry, that I helped teach to walk and talk, play games with, work alongside... that Leto died. That _thing_ Danarius made him into is no brother of mine. Not in any way that matters," she said, voice husky, tears spilling down her cheeks again.

"I think you're wrong," Anders said, softly. "But I suppose it really doesn't matter any more. Look, I can get you out of Kirkwall. There are places you can be sent, though I can't guarantee that you'll be somewhere where you can be trained," he said, and sighed, then straightened up, and paced back and forth a few steps. "Wherever you end up, I'd better get you out of here fast, before one of Fenris' friends drops in on me and finds you here," he said ruefully, and smiled crookedly at her. "I don't think Hawke or any of the others would be any more kindly inclined to you than Fenris currently is."

"Then why are _you_ helping me?" she asked, still looking confused. "Aren't you his friend?"

"Sometimes, yes. But mostly not. Anyway, best we get you cleaned up and out of here. There's two ships in port that I have contacts on; I can give you a choice between Ferelden and Rivain for destination."

She closed her eyes for a moment, then sighed. "Ferelden. The further from Tevinter, the better."

Anders nodded. "I'd suggest you disembark in Amaranthine. They're still rebuilding there, and desperate for more workers; it will likely mean taking work as some kind of servant, but with as few elves as are living in the Arling now, you'll be offered a pretty decent wage. Or if that's not to your taste, head to Vigil's Keep; the Grey Wardens can always find use for another mage, even an untrained one."

He didn't bother telling her that she might not survive if she did that; let her learn that for herself. He was already helping her more than she really deserved, the part of him that was Fenris' friend thought. It was her desperation that allowed him any mercy at all for her, he supposed. He knew what desperation tasted like, all too well.

* * *

**Dworkin/Sigrun - Something about exploding and stabbing really brings a couple together, huh?**

Sigrun boosted herself up to sit on Dworkin's workbench, and leaned closer to see what he was doing. He shot her a single, slightly-irritated glance – he's told her before that he didn't like having people hanging over his shoulder while he worked, to which she always pointed out that she was _dead_ , not a person as such at all. Which always made him harrumph and glower and fall silent again.

His hands fascinated her. Such blunt, stubby fingers, and yet he did such incredibly delicate work with them, first filling the little shaped metal sphere with his special mix, then carefully inserting the bits that turned it from an oddly-shaped container for an inert substance into something deathly dangerous. She held her breath, biting on her lip as she watched him deftly attach the fine wires from the primer into the pull-cap, and then fasten it on. She understood only vaguely how it worked; that pulling the cap yanked the wires so they broke open something inside the primer, and when what it held mixed with the dust he'd filled the container with, produced an explosive burst of energy.

That one done, he carefully set it into a rack off to one side, then picked up a second casing, and a file, and began cleaning off the flash from its casting. She settled back then, less interested in the more tedious parts of the preparation of his little bombs, and began to swing her feet.

"Can I have one to take with me tomorrow?" she wheedled, like a child begging for candy or a coin.

He snorted, and shot her a dark look. "Ask your commander. She has first dibs on all of these," he said, nodding to the partially filled rack.

Sigrun gave him a bright smile. "That's a yes, then. She always lets me share her stuff. _Good!_ I like using these, they do such a good job at killing darkspawn. It's even more fun than when I cut their throats myself. And faster. A lot messier though," she added thoughtfully.

That drew another snort from him. "You're a bloodthirsty one," he muttered.

She shrugged. "I'm _good_ at killing darkspawn," she said, then smiled warmly at him, and wiggled a little closer to him. "Anyway. Those weren't why I came here."

He looked up at her, and a very slight smile lifted his lips. "Why are you here then?"

She shifted even closer, and leaned towards him. "Well... I have tonight off, you see. And I was thinking, before I leave again tomorrow..."

He smiled then, for real, and put the cleaned casing down, fastening it into the padded vice that would hold it while he worked. "You were thinking we might spend the evening together?"

"Yes," she said, and grinned cheerfully at him, then wiggled her eyebrows meaningfully. "You could play with my fuse, get me all ignited, and then stab me with your dagger..."

He rolled his eyes. "It's at _least_ a short sword," he corrected her, almost primly.

She giggled. "All right. Stab me with your short sword, and make me _explode_..."

He snorted, then rose to his feet long enough to kiss her, hands grasping her hips for a moment. "All right," he said, then resumed his seat and stabbed his finger toward the far end of the table. "But out of the way for now, love – I have to finish these first," he growled.

She nodded happily, and moved out of his way, watching intently as he set to work on filling the casing, admiring again the deftness of his fingers.

* * *

**Anders/Bethany**

He knew she was there before she spoke, her presence a tingle in his senses, a warmth, a _direction_ , like how sunburnt skin could _feel_ the direction of the sun, or a compass needle point unerringly to the south.

"Bethany," he said, before he turned around.

She had changed; her stance more upright, her face a touch more placid than it had been in the past, before the Deep Roads Before she'd almost died, due to her foolishness, and her sister's. She had not changed in that she was still one of the most strikingly beautiful women he'd even seen, and he had seen his share of lovely faces in his years of travel. She had Leandra's strong, stubborn chin and her sister's midnight black hair, and brown eyes not unlike his own in colour. A touch darker, and where formally – before the Deep Roads, so many years ago – they had been warm eyes, the look she turned on him now was cool and detached.

"Anders," she said, and walked closer, stopping a few steps away. She glanced around the clinic, frowning slightly. "I had forgotten what a dank miserable hole this place was," she said, and turned to look at him again. "Almost as nasty a place as the Deep Roads are."

He sighed, and leaned back against the work bench behind him – carefully, it was not the most stable or sturdy of surfaces, but the only one he had – and crossed his arms. "I take it you've been spending your fair share of time down deep dark holes fighting darkspawn, then," he said. "The Deep Roads were never _my_ favourite place. I'm still not entirely sure how Hawke managed to talk me into going down into them yet again."

She snorted. "She's always been good at getting her way; getting what _she_ wants. Never mind what the rest of us might desire. I hear she's done well for herself, off the gold _my near death_ brought her."

Anders winced. "And for your mother, as well," he felt obliged to point out. "Who misses you dreadfully, by the way. Have you been to see her?"

"No," she said, and turned away. "I don't plan to go see her. Nor my sister. They are no longer part of my life," she said, bitterly. "Mother has the mansion and wealth she always dreamed of, Marian has status and power and..." she broke off, turned back to him. "That's not what I came here about."

"What _did_ you come here about then?" he asked, perplexed.

"I wanted to talk to you," she said, and folded her hands in front of her, neatly, against the blue and grey stripes of her uniform. "Imagine my surprise when the wardens I was with happened to visit Vigil's Keep in Ferelden, and I found that people there knew you. And thought you were _dead_ ," she added, an angry snap in her voice. "They talk about you still, you know – how cheerful you were. How nice. How good a friend you were. Some even talk about how much they _loved you_ ," she all but hissed, eyes narrowing sharply. "You ran away and let them think you were _dead_ , Anders... how could you do that? They were your _friends!_ "

"I didn't have any choice," he said, numbly, then gave her a half-frightened look. "You didn't tell them I was alive, did you?"

"No. I wanted to speak with you first. Find out why. Find out if you plan to do it again; run away, and leave people who love you behind. I _swear_ , if you hurt Marian that way..."

"Marian?" he interrupted, surprised. "Marian doesn't love me. She wouldn't care two spoons if I disappeared, other than how annoying it would be to have to try and find another healer," he added, a touch bitterly. "No, she's quite happily shacked up with Isabela."

The look of stunned astonishment on her face was almost enough to make him smile. He shifted position, re-folded his arms. "You're right about her usually getting what she wants, but it was never _me_ she wanted."

"And do you regret that?" she asked, faintly.

"No," he said, then straightened up, arms dropping to his sides. "It was never _her_ I was looking at," he explained, very softly.

"Oh," she said, equally softly. A silence fell between them, as she looked searchingly at him. "I should go," she said, abruptly, turned, and started to walk away.

He felt a pang at that. "Bethany," he called out.

She stopped, but did not look back.

"If you ever want answers to the questions you asked... I will answer them. But only to you."

She nodded, once, stiffly, then left. He waited until the tingle of her against his senses was gone entirely before he finally sighed, and turned back to his work.

* * *

**Nathaniel/Anders...teaching Anders archery?**

"Do you _have_ to stand so close?" Anders asked, a touch snappishly.

"Yes, I do," Nathaniel said. "Now hold the bow the way I showed you," he said.

Anders sighed and lifted it again, left arm held stiffly outright.

Nathaniel snorted. "That's all wrong," he said, and stepped even closer, pressing up against Anders' back, his own left arm moving to parallel Anders' arm, his hand resting lightly on the mage's. "Crook you arm, just slightly," he said softly. "If you don't bend the arm, the string is likely to hit your wrist, and believe me, that stings."

Anders swallowed, all-too-aware of the warmth of the man pressed up against him, then did as told, bending his arm a little.

"Good. Now, tilt your hand a little, so the tip of the bow is pointing a little to the right. It will make it easier to keep the arrow on the rest," Nathaniel explained, voice a low murmur right in Anders' ear, his breath tickling.

Anders shivered slightly at the sensation, then did so. Nathaniel shifted position slightly, leaning to the side to look over Anders' right shoulder instead of his left. "Yes, that's exactly right," the rogue said approvingly, then moved his right hand around into the mage's view. "Curl your fingers into a loose fist, like this, then hook the top two fingers and tuck the thumb down out of the way... yes. Then place just the tips of your fingers behind the string, and pull back, until your thumb touches the side of your chin... right here," he said, fingers reaching up to brush against Anders' chin before his hand dropped down out of sight, coming to rest on Anders' hip.

"Don't I get an arrow to shoot?" Anders asked nervously.

A snort. "No. Not until I think you can fire one without it going off in the wrong direction. Now, fingers on string, and pull..."

Anders muttered, but did as told. It bent easily at first, but it took considerable effort to get his hand all the way back to where Nathaniel had indicated.

"Good," the rogue whispered. His hand rose from Anders' hip to touch his stomach, lightly. "Straighten up, take a deep breath, hold it... sight at the target... and then release."

The string twanged. Anders jumped and yelped slightly, and looked at his wrist, rubbing at the reddened spot there. "What happened?" he said plaintively.

"You straightened out your arm again when you drew the bow," Nathaniel explained, and Anders didn't have to turn around to know that the rogue was grinning – he could hear it in Nathaniel's voice.

"Why didn't you warn me?" he asked, a touch sulkily.

"Some things you remember better once you've learned them for yourself," the rogue said. "Now come on, do that again. Do it right at least three times, and I may even let you try it with an arrow."

Anders snorted, but obediently lifted the bow again, then paused. "And if I manage to hit the target with it?" he asked.

Another laugh. "Then maybe I'll give you a forfeit of some kind."

"Ahh. Now _that's_ motivation for me to do well," Anders said, and paid rather more attention to his second shot.

* * *

**Anora and anyone. Anora and Cailan if possible, but Anora for sure.**

Anora crumpled the letter in one hand, then held it silently out to one side. Erlina quickly took it from her hand. "Dispose of that, please," Anora said, coldly, then turned and walked over to the window, staring blindly out it, waiting until her maid had left until she gave way to tears.

He was dead. They both were, and she was now a widow.

She lifted her hand, resting it on the cool glass and metal lattice of the window, her thoughts filled with him, of their last night together before he had gone. The cascade of his dark hair around his face, the scratchiness of his beard against her stomach as he kissed his way downwards. The scent and taste of him as they kissed, the feel of his strong hands on her as he held her so close to him afterwards, so desperately. One last stolen moment among many. One final memory of him, as he rose and dressed afterwards, silently, dark eyes watching her calmly – as he was always calm, even when all others seemed rushed or panicked by whatever the latest crisis was. How he'd bent down to kiss her, as she lay naked and satisfied on her bed, before he turned and slipped out of her room, off to search for a final few recruits before he joined her husband at Ostagar.

She touched her fingertips lightly to her lips, remembering that kiss. Her lips moved, shaping his name against them. "Duncan," she said, the syllables barely aspirated. And began to cry, for herself, for both of them, her lover and her husband, her dark knight and her golden boy. For all the long years that might be left to her, with neither of them.

It was only after the torrent of tears finally ended that she allowed herself to think of what must come next.

* * *

**Carver/Sebastian**

They were nothing alike, Carver told himself. Sebastian, born to privilege, himself to rural hardscrabble existence – what his mother had taken to referring to as 'genteel poverty', since her return to Kirkwall society. A pampered prince of royal lineage, and a boy raised as much a farmer as a fighter. A brother in the chantry, with deep and steady devotion to chantry and Andraste, and an apostate's son, filled with questions and doubts, not faith.

And yet... and yet...

He closed his hand around Sebastian's, weaving their fingers together, looked at the contrast of Sebastian's well-tanned hand and his own, pale from long confinement in gauntlets. Sebastian's nails were clean and neatly trimmed, his own ragged and chewed, with dark crescents of dirt and oil showing under some of them, where they were still long enough to catch such things. He released the hand, and rolled over, looking intently into the other man's face. Blue eyes – the only thing they shared, though his were dark and Sebastian's an electrifyingly bright blue.

Sebastian reached forward, pushing Carver's black hair back out of his eyes. "You need another haircut," he said, mildly.

"I thought you liked my hair long," Carver said, reaching up to run his fingers through Sebastian's own red-brown locks, then caressed his thumb against the prince's lips.

They curved in a smile, Sebastian nipping gently at the ball of his thumb before he answered. "I do. I like it very much," he said, voice low and just a little husky. Carver flushed at his tone, eyes slitting half-closed in pleasure as strong fingers slid against his scalp, twined into his hair. "But templar regulations..."

" _Hang_ templar regulations," Carver said. "According to them I shouldn't even be here with you, anyway. Nor you with me, by your chantry vows," he added, then burrowed his head against the other man's chest, nosing into the thick curls of hair there.

"But here we are anyway," Sebastian whispered, softly, and began to run one hand in a soothing motion down Carver's back.

"I sometimes wonder why," Carver admitted in a too-quiet whisper.

A stillness, a brief silence, from the other man. Then, "So do I. I don't really know. But one thing I _do_ know... it's _not_ because you're the second-best thing to your brother."

That startled a laugh and a blush from Carver; a laugh, because he _could_ laugh about it now, when Peaches had once been only a sore and sour memory, and a blush, because he remembered exactly the circumstances under which he'd told that story to the man now gently pushing him over onto his back. And a blush, because of the implied compliment – that _he_ was the best of the pair of them, at least in Sebastian's eyes.

And maybe that was answer enough, for now, as to why he himself was here.

* * *

**Tug/Sketch**

Sketch leaned back against the work bench, hands gripped tightly around its edge. " _Shit_ ," he gasped out, and groaned. " _Maker_ , Tug... just _do it!_ "

The dwarf snorted, his breath gusting hot and warm over Sketch's bare thigh. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"Yes, dammit, just... _aaaaahhhh!_ " he cried out. "Shit, shit, _shit_..."

Tug laughed as he held up a sizable splinter, pinched tightly between two fingernails. "That's got it," he said warmly. "I warned you it would hurt."

"You two," Leliana said, shaking her head as she leaned in the door and laughed. "You have _no idea_ what that sounded like from the other room! Such naughty ideas it gave me!"

Tug snorted and grinned at her as he flicked the splinter into the nearby fireplace. "I'm sure it did," he said dryly.

"Well, Marjolaine and I are going out to dinner together. You boys be good while we're away, yes?" she said brightly.

"Of course," said Sketch, straightening up, and smoothing down his robes.

Tug waited until they'd heard the front door open and close, then smirked at the elven mage. "Good thing she missed seeing how you _got_ the splinter in the first place."

Sketch smiled ruefully. "I thought they'd left already. Anyway, how about we move this to the bed; I'm sure that's not the _only_ splinter that bench is waiting to savage me with."

Tug grinned. "Sure. Want me to kiss it and make it better?"

Sketch laughed, and rumpled the dwarf's hair as he walked by him on the way to his bed. "Already healed it, but I can think of a few other things I'd be more than happy to have you kiss," he teased.


	21. Ask Box Ficlets 13 - Additional Rare Pairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some further Rare Pair prompts from Tumblr.

**Sebastian/Wade**

He could have taken ship more directly to Denerim, but Sebastian had chosen to disembark in Amaranthine, and ride from there, it not having escaped him that the road would pass by Vigil's Keep, where Bethany Hawke was to be found. He was disappointed, on his arrival, to find that she was not there, being off on patrol.

"She'll likely be back tomorrow," the foul-smelling dwarf who was apparently in charge of the keep at the moment – the Warden-Commander being off on the self-same patrol – told Sebastian, running a jaundiced eye over the man. "You can stay overnight, I suppose. Talk to Seneschal Varel, he'll see you situated," he added, jerking his broad thumb over one shoulder to where a grey-haired man stood in conversation with another dwarf, this one of the female variety, her face heavily tattooed.

Sebastian did so. The room he was given was small and plainly furnished, just a hair better in furnishings and decor than the monastic cell he'd lived in for so many years in the Chantry. He left his saddlebags there, and went for a walk around the place, interested by everything he saw, and sure Hawke would like to hear more of the place where her sister now lived.

He paused to examine a lovely old statue of Andraste, carved in the southern style, near the gate leading into the Keep proper. As he was standing there looking at it, a bald-headed man walking along carrying a pile of leather came to an abrupt stop nearby, gasping loudly and staring wide-eyed at him.

"My white armour!" the man screeched, dropped his armful of hides, and ran over. He stopped uncomfortably close to the prince, his eyes running avidly over Sebastian's armour, hands reaching a little toward him and flexing as if he wished to touch him – or at least his armour.

Sebastian eyed him guardedly and edged a little away. "I beg your pardon, but this is _my_ armour," he corrected him.

"No, no, you don't understand – this was my _masterwork!_ "the man exclaimed.

"Oh! You mean you're the smith that made this?" Sebastian asked, surprised.

"Yes, exactly," the man agreed. "Oh, _please_ come over to the forge, I want Herren to see it! I told him all about it, of course, after we started working together, but he never saw the set. Some of my _finest_ early work! I was just a pimple-faced twig of a boy when I made it, you know," the man said confidingly, and took Sebastian's arm, tugging him toward a nearby roofed-over area.

"Errr... of course," Sebastian said, then looked at the hides scattered over the roadway. "What about your leather...?"

"Oh, right... do you mind?" the man asked, released Sebastian's arm and began gathering up the heavy pieces of leather. Sebastian raised an eyebrow, but helped him to gather up and carry the treated hides into the roof-off area and deposit them in a pile beside a worktable.

The other man looked around distractedly. "Oh dear, I forgot Herren would be at lunch right now – do you mind waiting a little while? I _so_ want him to see that armour... and if you'd like, I can give it some maintenance while you wait," he added, frowning as he looked over Sebastian again. "Some of those straps are _dreadfully_ worn."

"It has been a while since I last had the time to have it properly cared for," Sebastian admitted, as neutrally as he could. "I have owned the set for many years – my father commissioned it for me when I joined the chantry."

The man nodded vigorously. "I remember him. Fine specimen of a man, if you like red-heads. Which I must admit I have a weakness for," he added with a wink.

"Errr... yes," Sebastian said, faintly. Was the man _flirting_ with him! "Ah, I suppose introductions are in order?"

"Oh, yes, _do_ please forgive me. I'm Master Wade," the smith said, giving Sebastian a formal little bow of greeting.

"Sebastian Vael."

The smith nodded. "A pleasure to meet you," he said. "Now let me take a closer look at that, if you don't mind..." he said, and stepped closer to Sebastian, reaching out to hook a finger through a strap on tug on it. "Loose," he said, a touch scornfully, then fell silent as he began looking over the armour, scrutinizing it closer.

He was a very handsy sort of person, Sebastian quickly noticed, not in the least hesitant to put his hands in all sorts of places – some of them rather personal – in order to check the fit and condition of the armour. Even fully clothed and armoured it felt... rather overly _intimate_ , the way Wade's hand slid under his breastplate, checking how snug the fit was between it and the scale mail coat underneath. He felt himself flushing as the man next ran his hand in a long smooth stroke down the skirt of the scale mail coat, in a gesture very much like a caress, coming to rest on the buckle of Sebastian's belt.

"I rather wondered about the reason for Andraste's head here," Wade said confidingly. "But you say the armour was commissioned when you entered the chantry? I suppose your father had a rather, err, _colourful_ sense of humour?"

"And reason to suspect I might find keeping vows of chastity rather difficult, yes," Sebastian admitted, feel a blush heating his cheeks and ears. "I was rather a rake before I joined, you see."

"Mmm. A pity I didn't meet you then," the man said, and then his hand dropped even lower, startling a yelp from Sebastian as he reached in under the mail coat. " _Those_ are rather baggy," he said, a touch scathingly. "A tighter-fitting pair of leggings would look better, and not spoil the line of the coat."

"I prefer them comfortable," Sebastian said, his blush deepening. "Ah, your hand..."

" _Oh!_ Sorry," Wade exclaimed, and withdrew it, then moved around in back of Sebastian, tugging at straps and muttering to himself at intervals, finally moving back around to the face. "All right, take it all off."

"I beg your pardon?" Sebastian asked, startled again.

"The _armour_. Take it off – I can _hardly_ repair it while you're wearing it," he pointed out huffily.

"Oh. Right. Of course." Sebastian said, and began to undo the requisite buckles. Apparently too slowly for Wade's tastes – after a moment he made a small peeved sound, and began helping to undo them as well, reverently taking each piece of the set as it was removed and setting them carefully down on a workbench nearby.

"You'll have to leave the set with me at _least_ overnight," the smith said firmly once Sebastian was down to his stockings, leggings, and the close-fitting linen shirt he wore under the mail coat. "And that's just to replace the worn straps, reinforce the attachment points, and tighten or replace any loose or missing rivets." As he spoke he was carefully gathering up all the pieces of armour, hugging them tightly to his chest. "And thank you _so much_ for allowing me to work on them... I thought I'd _never_ see this set again!" Wade hugged the armour to himself as he spoke, an almost rapturous expression on his face. "Well, I'm going to start right away... I'm so excited!" he exclaimed, and hurried off through a nearby doorway, into a small building the open-sided area back onto.

"Herren! _Herren!_ Come see what I have!" he called out as he disappeared from sight.

Sebastian shook his head, bemused, and headed back to his room in the keep. A good thing he'd packed several changes of clothing, including spare boots – he certainly didn't want to meet Bethany Hawke again looking like he currently did!

* * *

**Isabela/Aveline**

She knew Isabela had been by the moment she walked into her office and saw that all the things on her desk had been rearranged. Some of it subtly – the small knife she used to sharpen quill pens a little out of position – and some of it quite noticeably, such as her mug being upside-down in the middle of the blotter. She paused and peered carefully around, in case the rogue was still in the office somewhere, carefully hidden, but she wasn't behind any of the curtains or hiding under any of the furniture. If she was still lingering in the room, she was remarkably well hidden.

Aveline walked over to the desk, stripping off her gauntlets as she frowned down at the upturned mug. She sat down in her chair, and started to reach for it, then hesitated. Her frown deepened slightly, as she tried to remember if she'd said anything either particularly nice or particularly cutting to the woman in the last few days. She couldn't recall saying anything in particular to Isabela over the last few days, but then she'd been avoiding Hawke and all of his companions since that hideously embarrassing bit of nonsense out of the Wounded Coast a week ago, anyway.

She sat and stared at the mug. At least whatever was hidden under the mug – assuming something was – had to be something small. It probably wouldn't be anything near as bad as the time Isabela had filled her desk drawers with custard after she'd referred to the woman as a pox-ridden pustulant whore during one particularly heated disagreement between the two of them. Even after thorough cleaning, there was still a faint eggy odour noticeable in the room on particularly warm and humid days. Of course, Isabela being Isabela, "small" might still include any number of quite nasty surprises, so that was no guarantee.

She reached out and rested her fingertips lightly on top of the mug, then paused, chewing nervously on her lower lip, considering all the things it might possibly be, depending on what sort of mood the other woman had been in when she left it. A stink bomb? Candy? Nothing at all. A bribe. Something small enough to fit within the compass of her own hand, anyway.

Finally she drew a deep, settling breath. Sitting here staring wasn't going to solve the mystery. She closed her fingers around the base of the mug, then lifted it quickly. Something _moved_... she was pushing herself away from the desk, almost knocking her chair over backwards, before her eyes focused on what was there.

She laughed ruefully over her own fright, and put the mug down, waiting for her heart's frantic beating to return to normal before reaching out. A pile of chain; it had shifted when she'd lifted the mug, giving it the illusion of movement. She lifted it up, then smiled as she saw the pendant dangling from it, made of a bit of orange beach glass, a glass bead the same blueish green colour as her own eyes, and a flower. Not just any flower – a marigold, cast in copper. She laughed, smile deepening, and then fastened it around her neck, dropping it down inside her armour, before spotting the scrap of parchment the flower had been resting on.

"Sorry for teasing, love. Isabela," was all it said.

She sighed, and smiled again. "Forgiven," she muttered, and returned her mug – and everything else on her desk – to its proper place before beginning her day's work.

_Note - the necklace described in the short is based on[this one](http://www.etsy.com/listing/23859988/picasso-marigold-necklace-copper-chain) on Etsy_  


* * *

**Fenris/Merrill**

Fenris stood on one foot, the other held stiffly in mid-air, looking warily down at Merrill where she was crouched on one knee beside him. She started to reach for his foot, then looked up at him, green eyes wide and just a touch frightened.

"Are you sure this is all right?" she asked anxiously.

"Just do it," he growled, and found himself almost missing the presence of the abomination, who would have already done whatever needed doing with his usual efficiency. But the pain in his foot had begun while he was escorting Merrill home from an evening at the Hanged Man – something he had only undertaken at Varric's request – and only she was on hand.

"All right," Merrill said, and hesitantly took his foot in her hand, lifting it and tilting it further back so she could see the sole more clearly, holding his arch cupped in the palm of her left hand, fingers carefully placed to avoid touching the lyrium lines etched into his flesh. He froze, every muscle going tense, hating letting her touch him at all, especially when blood was involved.

"I... I think I'll have to use magic," she said after peering closely at the sole from several angles. "It's in deep."

He growled, and for a moment contemplated just yanking his foot out of her hand and leaving. But the walk from here to Anders' clinic was a long and filthy one, and the last thing he needed was an infection setting in. "Fine!" he said, explosively, and had to suppress a hiss of annoyance when it made the girl flinch. "As long as it doesn't involve blood magic. Just get it over with. Please," he remembered to add at the end.

She nodded, then held her right hand cupped just above the sole of his foot. She closed her eyes, chewing a little on her bottom lip, something that would have been rather adorably attractive on any other elf, but on her just reminded him of how much he distrusted her apparent innocence. A faint glow of energy formed around her hand. He could feel it in his tattoos, a tingle spreading outwards and upwards, a sensation his body couldn't decide whether was heat or cold. It did not have the unpleasant edge of blood magic, which reassured him at least a little, but he still found his gauntleted hands curling into fists. He gritted his teeth, to prevent himself from snapping at her to get it over with _faster_. It would not improve the situation any, and doubtless she was just as unnerved by him as he was by her.

There was an odd tugging sensation on the sole of his foot, and a moment later she closed her hand, releasing his foot even before the glow of magic had faded away. He put his foot hesitantly down on the floor. It hurt, still, but nowhere near as bad as it had been.

"Let me see," he growled.

She rose to her feet, turning her hand palm-upright before opening it, revealing the bloodied splinter resting on her palm. It was a nastily large shaving of metal, as long as the last joint of her thumb, hair-fine at the sharpest end, and thick as a darning needle at the other.

Fenris silently picked it up from her palm, holding it pinched between his fingers and bringing it up close to his eyes to examine. "I likely picked it up when we were in the Foundry district earlier," he said thoughtfully. "And didn't notice until it worked its way through dead callus and into living flesh."

"I suppose," she said. "It makes sense anyway."

He nodded, then dropped the bit of metal into a belt pouch to throw away later. "Thank you," he said, gravely.

"You should go see Anders about the foot still," she said, equally grave. "No telling what filth that was in, or that you've stepped in since, or what you might yet pick up if the puncture is not properly healed. Wait, I'll find you a cloth to wrap around it to keep it clean on the way there."

He swallowed, and then ducked his head, just slightly. "I would appreciate it," he said again.

She hurried over to a shelf on one wall, lifting down a small basket and sorting through the contents before restoring it to its place. She returned with a strip of old cloth in hand, and before he could take it from her, knelt down again. He chewed on his own lower lip a little as he lifted the foot enough to allow her to bandage it.

"Thank you," he said again when she was done and had rose to her feet again.

She smiled warmly at him. "It was the least I could do after you so kindly walked me home," she said. "Thank _you_."

He nodded, and turned away, walking over to the door. He stopped, the door half-open, and looked back at her. "Good night," he said, awkwardly.

She nodded, just once. "Good night," she said quietly, and smiled again, brightly but a little nervously.

He waited outside until he'd heard her bar the door behind him before leaving, heading towards Darktown, limping just slightly.

* * *

**Sebastian/Morrigan**

Sebastian's head turned, looking after the dark-haired young woman walking down the street. She had a regal bearing, and her dress – a striking dark cranberry red – set off her pale complexion and raven's-wing black hair to perfection. She had, he found himself thinking, a neck like a swan – long, curved, and graceful. And a very light walk, that gave a sway to the skirts of her dress that he knew his younger libertine self would have been more than a little fascinated by.

It was only when she turned to examine the goods at one of the market stalls that he realized that what he'd thought was a bundle of some kind in her arms was in fact a sleeping child, its head pillowed on her breast, its hair as black as her own – a boy, judging by its outfit. As she lifted up a length of lace and talked with the merchant about it, the toddler stirred, and yawned, then lifted its head and looked around. Eyes of brilliant green briefly met his, then the boy looked up at his mother's face, and smiled sweetly, one hand reaching up to pat at her cheek. She paused to smile back, and press a kiss to the chubby little hand.

He smiled as well, and turned away to continue his walk. A lovely child, and a lovely young matron. He wondered, briefly, who she was – no one he'd seen before, and between his duties for the chantry and his adventuring with Hawke, he'd seen most of the faces in Kirkwall, it often seemed.

Then a familiar deep voice called out, and he turned to smile at Fenris, raising one hand in greeting as he walked towards him, the pretty young woman already dismissed from his mind.


	22. Ask Box Ficlets 14

**King!Alistair/Zevran**

Alistair returned the deep parting bow of the ambassador with a considerably shallower bow of his own, and stood stiffly upright, watching as the man and his secretary backed a polite distance away from the throne before finally turning and exiting out the door at the far end of the room. Only once they had departed did he return to his seat on the throne, carefully adjusting his heavy cloak and the sword on one hip as he settled down on the too-thinly-padded seat again

"Very well handled, my King," a voice said softly from somewhere among the heavy draperies lining the wall in back of the throne; just loud enough to be audible to Alistair, but not to anyone else in the room.

A very slight smile twisted his lips, and he lowered his head a little, pretending to be absorbed in cutting himself a wedge of cheese from the tray on a small table next to his throne, lips almost motionless as he replied in an equally quiet voice. "I like that... _my King_... I'm hardly your liege lord."

"Mmmm, true. But I am sworn to the Warden-Commander, and he, as Arl of Amaranthine, is sworn to you, so in a way you _are_ my liege, at one remove. Two, if we consider that the Arl's brother is technically between he and thee. But you and I... we do not require such an exchange of oaths, do we," he asked, voice lowering and getting just a touch husky. "You are _my_ King, are you not?" he asked, and the tone and the particular word stressed made it clear that the assassin meant that in an entirely possessive sense, not one of fealty.

Alistair found his mouth going abruptly dry, and swallowed his mouthful of cheese with some difficulty. "Yes," he agreed, softly. He drew a shaky breath, then passed his hand over his mouth, obscuring his next words from any possibility of being read. "I am yours," he husked.

"Very good," Zevran answered, voice an approving purr. "One more audience to get through, my dear, and then perhaps you should retire to your apartments for the evening, yes? And let your guards know you will be all tied up for the rest of the night."

"You're an evil, evil man, Zev."

"But of course. And you like it that way."

A grin, that he didn't bother to hide. He covered for it by helping himself to some more cheese. And then signalled for the next supplicant to be allowed in. The sooner this farce was over with and he could retire to the privacy of his bedchambers, the better.

* * *

**Sebastian. Merrill. Chocolate brownies!**

Sebastian hissed and shook his hand.

"Careful, they're still hot from the roasting," Merrill cautioned him, a moment too late.

Sebastian smiled tolerantly at her even as his hands continued on with their task, picking up the roasted beans and expertly cracking off the shells, brittle from the roasting. The shells he let drop to the table before him; the darkly roasted meats inside went into a bowl nearby, from which Merrill transferred them a handful at a time to the mortar in front of her. She quickly ground them with her pestle into a dark, fragrant paste, after which she scraped it out into a second, larger bowl, and continued with another handful of the roasted cocoa beans.

"I'm surprised you know how to do this," she said after a while, watching how rapidly his fingers extricated the nut meats from their shells.

Sebastian smiled crookedly. "I was thinking the same thing about you, actually. In Starkhaven, cocoa beans are a rare imported luxury. I'm surprised the Dalish would be familiar with them at all; I certainly didn't expect to bump into you in the market looking for the same thing as I was."

Merrill snorted. "And who do you think first made chocolate? It was no human, I can tell you that!" she said, shaking the end of the pestle warningly at him.

"Well, I'm certainly glad _someone_ discovered what to do with these beans," Sebastian said. "I love chocolate. So... what shall we make, once we've finished processing them all?" he asked, eying the large stack of beans yet to shell and grind.

"Something to share with the others," Merrill said promptly, a response that drew a smile from Sebastian. She was a generous soul, he'd noticed. "Cake maybe... I have flour, and sweetening..." she continued thoughtfully.

Sebastian smile widened as he watched her consider. "Let me know if there's anything else we need for the baking," he said. "I'll go to the market and pick it up. Eggs perhaps? Almond milk?"

"Yes," she said, and smiled warmly at him. "We can bring the cake to Wicked Grace tonight. It will be a surprise. Our treat to share."

"Yes," he agreed, and found himself thinking that whatever she baked wouldn't be half as sweet as the smile she'd just gifted him with, nor as warming, no matter how freshly out of the oven.

* * *

**Aveline, Isabela, Merrill, "all the single ladies"**

Aveline groaned. "Explain to me again what I'm doing out with the two of you?" she asked.

"Enjoying your last night of pre-marital freedom," Isabela promptly answered. "With your two best female friends."

"That's right! We're all friends!" Merrill piped up, smiling broadly, and just a little woozily, at the other two women.

"I'm not entirely sure I'd call the two of you my best friends," Aveline said, a touch grumpily.

Isabela raised an eyebrow. "So just how many friends that are female do you have?" she asked.

Aveline opened her mouth, then closed it. None, really, she glumly thought to herself. Oh, there was a handful of other women in the guard, but she'd never been exactly _friendly_ with them before she'd become Captain, since she was seen as the outsider, the Ferelden dog lord. Dog lady. Whatever. And since she'd so startlingly become Captain herself there'd been the barrier of her rank. It was easier not to play favourites when you didn't actually _have_ any favourites, she'd always told herself, and tried not to regret the fact that her only real friends in this city were the Hawke family. And then Carver had joined the Grey Wardens, and Leandra was dead, and...

"All right, I concede the point," she said resignedly. "You two are my best female friends."

"Exactly. And as such it's our duty to see you have a proper send-off for your matrimonial journey. That the ship of your marriage is properly launched. That..."

"One more nautical quip and I'm leaving," Aveline said warningly.

Isabela grinned widely, but refrained. "All right. Now. I have a private room booked for us at the Blooming Rose..."

"The Blooming Rose! Are you _mad_... I'm the guard captain! I can't be seen there! And I'm about to be married, I don't want to spend the night with a... with..." Aveline sputtered.

"Oh, hush, Aveline... _trust me_ ," Isabela said with a grin. "There will be no whores involved, and no one will see you. That's why I chose the Rose – they do discrete very, _very_ well as long as you throw enough money at them. No, my darlings, there will just be us, a large quantity of very fine drink, and some fine, fine entertainment to watch. Not to partake in. Just watch. I promise. Besides, it will be the last night for all us single ladies to enjoy together."

Aveline sighed, then pressed her lips together, and studied the other two. Isabela looked calmly back at her. Merrill looked slightly confused and rather hopeful, and Aveline was certain the elf would look like a kicked puppy if she actually said no, so she gave in. "Fine. I will trust you. For this one night only," she said, holding up a finger warning. "And if you embarrass me publicly on the eve of my wedding, I swear I will _end_ you..."

"Excellent," Isabela said, with a wide grin, ignoring the threat. "Then let's head on over there. Everything is arranged. You'll enjoy yourself, I promise you."

And, rather to her surprise... she did. There were far too many small, sticky and above-all-lethal drinks mixed by Isabela, and a rather astonishing variety of acts performed by the entertainment the pirate had hired, and quite an awful lot of most dreadfully confused questions from Merrill that had Aveline and Isabela in tears of laughter as they tried to answer them all. She had a truly epic headache the next morning when she finally managed to get herself upright again... but it had been good, all of it, even Isabela giving her the Dread Pirate Isabela version of 'the talk' with the entertainment illustrating the more salient points of it, and Aveline reminding her that she _had_ been married before, and yet more confused questions from Merrill...

It had been good. Perhaps having the wench and the witch as her best female friends wasn't that bad after all.

* * *

**Bethany, Varric, and Aveline. Doing something when Hawke isn't present.**

It took all three of them to arrange it. Varric's contacts, Aveline's influence, and Bethany's good behaviour. Bethany smiled as the door closed behind her, Guard-Captain Cullen's footsteps already fading away, he having undertaken to personally escort her there and pass her over into Aveline's custody for the night.

"Thank you," Bethany said, hugging the other woman tightly. "How's she been?"

Aveline sighed, and frowned unhappily. "Not well," she said. "Between your mother's death, and that fight with the Arishok..."

Bethany nodded sadly. She'd been allowed to attend the funeral, but surrounded by templars as she'd been, there'd been no chance to talk with her sister. And then the fight, so soon afterwards... Marian had nearly died, she knew. Had been weeks in recovering, even with a talented healer on hand.

"Where is she?" she asked, a touch worriedly.

"Out," Varric spoke from behind Aveline, and came forward to claim a hug from Bethany. "Somewhere on the Wounded Coast, with Anders, Sebastian and Fenris. I told them to make sure she stayed out all day, but to get her back here in time for dinner, no matter how many smugglers and abominations they had to kill to pull it off. And I managed to get together everything you wanted. Even fresh peas, though the lamb is mutton. And rather elderly mutton at that."

"Thank you," Bethany said warmly.

"So... could you use a scullion?" he asked, and grinned widely. "Bow may be my preferred weapon, but I _do_ know my way around a knife..."

"As do I," Aveline pointed out. "And unlike the dwarf I actually know all the right recipes, too."

"You can both help," Bethany assured them. "You've both helped so much already," she said, and then her eyes filled with tears, and she had to hug both of them again before the three of them retired to the kitchen.

When a very tired Marian returned later that day from another day of adventuring, it was to find the house filled with the smells of _home_ – Ferelden lamb and pea stew, fresh-baked brown bread, and a sticky pudding to follow. And best of all, her sister there, and able to spend the night, in talk and in tears, and most importantly of all to Marian, in reconciliation.

It hurt to say good-bye the next morning, to hug her and then watch her walk off at Cullen's side, back to the Gallows... but it was a _good_ hurt, and for the first time in weeks, Marian felt good too. Circumstances might keep her and Bethany apart now... but never again would she doubt her sister's love.

* * *

**Fenris/Isabela - spontaneity**

"I do not know how to dance," he said, stiffly. "It was not a skill my master felt I needed to learn, and I've had no reason to since."

"Anyone can dance," Isabela assured him. "Come on. Give me your hand."

Fenris gave her a cool look instead. Isabela laughed, then grabbed his hand, and tugged him out of the room. "No one can see us here," she assured him, "Now, come. It's simple. Hold my hand like _this_ , and then put your other hand on my hip, _here_ ," she said, changing her grip on his hand, and lifting his other hand to press against her side. "Now. Listen to the music. There's a beat. We want to move to the beat. The beat is _one_ -two-three, _one_ -two-three... you hear it?"

"Yes," he admitted, grudgingly.

"Good. Now, we want to move in a square. You'll start with your feet together, then step forward with your left. Then forward and right with your right. Then bring your left over to your right. That's the first two sides of the box, and the first _one_ -two-three. And then back with your right, back and left with your left, and bring the right over to it, and you'll be back where you started. That's the second _one_ -two-three. Do you see?" she asked, and stepped him through it.

Fenris frowned down at his feet as she walked him slowly through it a second time, then a third, eyebrows creasing in an irritated frown.

" _Left_ -right-left, _right_ -left-right," she prompted him.

He scowled, and muttered, and stepped on her foot once, but after a few tries he managed to succeed at moving along with her, to the beat, and his forehead smoothed out. "It's like footwork when fighting," he said, surprised.

"You see?" Isabela said, smiling warmly at him. "Anyone can dance."

"Yes," he agreed, and suddenly glanced up at her. "Thank you," he said abruptly, and leaned forward to kiss her, blushing and looking more than a little pleased with himself afterwards.

Her smile widened. "Reward me with more of those and maybe I'll teach you a few other moves," she suggested, one eyebrow arching high.

His smile was short-lived, a brief self-conscious quirking of his lips, but it was the first time she could recall ever seeing the elf smile.

"Maybe I will," he said. And smiled again.

* * *

**Anders and Merrill bonding over magic, and genuinely enjoying each other's company**

"See, and then you draw a deep breath, and hold it, and... ka-boom! And that's it," Anders explained.

Merrill frowned, her nose wrinkling slightly. "I suppose that would work," she agreed. "Though it's not so much a big release of electrical energy I was wondering about."

"Oh? What is it then?" he asked, looking surprised.

"Well," she said, and looked a little flustered, fidgeting in her seat. "It's... well, Isabela asked me... she told me about..." She stopped, and flushed, even her ears turning red in her embarrassment.

" _Oh!_ You mean the _trick_ ," Anders exclaimed, looking abruptly enlightened, then grinned. "No, you're right, you definitely would _not_ want a big release of energy for that one. Okay, look, it's... what you have to do is... well, all right, this is kind of hard to really describe. I'm going to have to demonstrate. On your _hand_ ," he hurried to explain. "Nothing, err... racy. Anyway, let me show you..."

Isabela and Hawke returned to the room a few minutes later, to find the two holding hands, heads bent together and both of them giggling.

"Anders, you _do_ realize that's my girlfriend's hand you're holding?" Hawke asked, his eyebrow arching high. "Merrill, do I need to thrash him?"

Merrill laughed and exchanged a laughing look with Anders. "Oh, no. It's... completely innocent. Well, _almost_ completely innocent," she corrected, and the two laughed again, grinning widely.

"I think I'd best be going," Anders said, rising to his feet. "Isabela, care to walk with me?"

She gave him a puzzled look, then shrugged and left.

"Are you going to explain to me what that was about?" a very puzzled Hawke asked Merrill once they'd left.

She smiled, looking pleased with herself. "I think I'd better demonstrate," she said. And laughed again.


	23. Ask Box Ficlets 15 - Bann Teagan Fan Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This week is Bann Teagan fan week on Tumblr, so I once again threw my Ask Box open for prompts, and encouraged his inclusion in them. _Every_ prompt I got was one for him. Here's the end results of a day happily spent filling them.

**Teagan/Marian Hawke, when he's in Kirkwall to retrieve drunk!Alistair**

She was younger than he'd expected, this young woman from Ferelden, this Champion of Kirkwall. Young, and strikingly beautiful, with her careless knot of black hair, cool blue eyes, and the blood-red tattoo over the bridge of her nose, calling attention to the slight crookedness there – an old injury – that was her one visible flaw. Her eyes saw more than just the surface of things, he was sure, having seen such wary, watchful eyes before. She reminded him of the Hero of Ferelden, though they were entirely unlike physically – tall broad-shouldered young human warrior compared to slight elf, black hair to blond, blue eyes to green, fair skin to dark. But something about the way she carried herself, her awareness of all that went on around her – that was the same.

"I've been told you can help me," he said. "I'm looking for a man."

One of her eyebrows arched high. "You can find one of those at the Blooming Rose easily enough, I'm sure," she said.

He smiled, just slightly. More alike to the Hero than he'd thought, the same acid humour. "A specific man. I've been told you know, or at least know of, or can find out about, every Ferelden living in Kirkwall. The one I'm looking for is named Alistair..."

"Oh, _him_ ," she said, and sounded almost disappointed. "Big, blond, perpetually drunken, and says he was once almost the King of Ferelden?"

"That would be him," Teagan agreed, resignedly. "Can you lead me to him?"

"Of course," she said. "For a few coin – I don't work for free."

He nodded, unsurprised, and paid her the gold necessary to find his man.

"What do you want the drunken git for anyway?" she thought to ask, later, as she led the way through the twisting streets of Lowtown.

Bann Teagan smiled. "To put him on his father's throne." And to her look of surprise, "He may be many things, but Alistair has never been a liar."

* * *

**Teagan. Anora. Convincing.**

Teagan sighed. "Look, I don't agree with my brother's reasoning at all in this matter..."

"Yet you are here arguing his point anyway," Anora pointed out, coolly.

"Not quite. I am here arguing the _Warden's_ point. This civil war your father and my brother began has nearly torn Ferelden apart. At a time when we can least afford division, caught between the darkspawn to the south and Orlesian ambitions to the west, we have seen too many of our best men dying in internal warfare..."

One sculpted brow rose. "You agree with my father that Orlais is a danger to us, then."

"Yes, of course I do! Do not forget that my own lands of Rainesfere are on our western border – I am well aware of the threat Orlais and _Orlesian ambitions_ represent to our country, even if some people – my own brother among them – are foolish enough to think the war ended when King Maric sliced off Meghren's head and stuck it over the palace gate."

Anora's chin rose slightly. "Yet you believe I should marry this supposed bastard son of Maric's..."

" _Yes_ , my Queen, I do. It will _end_ this damned war and bring your father's side and my brother's into alignment. With luck it will not be too late to eliminate the darkspawn before they overrun our country, and we will still be strong enough afterwards to prevent any Orlesian attempt at the same."

"And if I don't marry Alistair?"

"Then the Warden will have no choice but to put him on the throne anyway, as the cost of my brother's co-operation with the Wardens."

Her chin rose higher, and her head turned to one side. "You offer me a choice that is no choice, then... to marry this man whose parentage is unproven, to pass over my powers to him voluntarily – or to see them stripped from me and given to him any way."

Bann Teagan sighed, and sank down on the couch beside her. "Anora, please... you know me well enough to know I do not speak to you lightly of this matter. But I fear that if you and Alistair do not join together and thereby reunite the different factions in Ferelden, that we will either fall to the archdemon, or to the Orlesians. Would you rather wed Alistair and retain at least some of your power as Queen, or would you wed at the end of an Orlesian sword and spend the rest of your life in prison, kept alive only until you bore an heir-and-a-spare to some Orlesian puppet-king? _That_ is the choice I fear you truly face."

She kept her head turned away a while longer, biting on her lower lip, then looked back at him. "I wish my husband were still alive. I wish I carried his child. I wish my father..." she broke off, eyes brimming with tears. "I wish many things. But I must face reality. Cailan is gone, there is no heir, and my father is more than half-mad with grief. And this civil war must _end_. All right. Tell the Warden I will wed Alistair. I will support him in the Landsmeet."

"Thank you," he said, softly, then lifted her hand, sinking down to one knee, briefly touching his forehead to the back of her hand. "You are truly the Queen that Ferelden desperately needs in this time of crisis, Anora. Thank you for listening to me."

She smiled at him, thinly, though he could see what pain she was still in. "Thank you. You have always been an honourable man, Bann Teagan. It... means much to me, hearing such words from your lips."

"My Queen," he said quietly, and bowed again, then left.

* * *

**Teagan fluffy smut with F!Mahariel? Or just fluff? Reuniting after Archdemon sort of thing?**

The fighting had stopped with a burst of night from the top of the tower at Fort Drakon, as night was falling. A burst of light, that had lit the sky as brightly as day. The darkspawn had mostly turned and ran; those that didn't were easily cut down.

Teagan had not expected to survive that night, as hard-pressed as he and his small contingent of men had been, and yet the miracle had occurred – the Archdemon had been beaten, slain, and the worst of the Blight ended. He camped with his men in the ruined buildings surrounding the gate that night, there being no where else to go, then the next day began the arduous journey across the devastated city, killing whatever lingering darkspawn they found, doing what they could for the few injured they found still alive in the rubble. Few, because most of those who'd still been in the city when the darkspawn arrived were now most horribly dead, and of those that lived, in far too many cases the only thing that _could_ be done for them was to end their pain.

Rumour travelled on fleeter feet than theirs; he had heard of Alistair's death and the hero's survival even before he reached the one bridge that yet remained across the Drakon river. He allowed himself brief one moment of mingled grief and joy – grief over the death of a man he'd watched grow from child to youth to bitter young man, joy over the survival of an elf that had come to mean more to him than he had ever thought any woman would again. And then he returned to the work that needed doing, the slow search through the city for the living and the dead and the ones in need of death.

It was almost two weeks later before he was finally in her presence again, he just one among many watching as Queen Anora thanked her for the work of the Grey Wardens, and gifted the Grey Wardens, in the person of the elf, with the lands of the traitorous Howes. She made a pass around the room afterwards, stopping to speak words of parting to each of her companions. She stopped too, briefly, by him and his brother. "Arl Eamon," she said, voice soft and sweet. "Congratulations on becoming Arl of Denerim and Chancellor of the Realm."

Eamon smiled, a smile that lifted his lips but did not reach his eyes. "Thank you," he said, barest politeness to the woman who'd saved his life.

She turned to him then. Dipped her head, smiled slightly. "Bann Teagan. It is good to see that you survived the battles."

He took her hand and bowed over it, carefully proper here in public. "And you as well, Ser Mahariel. I am sorry for the loss of your companion Alistair."

She nodded. "Thank you. Everyone insists on calling me the Hero of Ferelden, but I feel the title truly belongs to him, not I."

She withdrew her hand from his then, nodded to the pair of them, turned, and left, moving on to the next person she must be seen to talk to before she could leave the crowded hall.

"Something will have to be done about that," Eamon murmured as he watched her walk away, frowning slightly. "An _elf_ , Arl of one of the oldest arlings in Ferelden? I don't know what Anora was thinking. A Dalish elf, at that! Better to have given her some trade goods and a good bow and sent her back to the forests, where she belongs," he said, and sniffed disdainfully.

Teagan remained silent, and excused himself as soon as he politely could. He found a quiet corner, and read the note she'd passed him so openly, and smiled. An address; a time. A rendezvous.

It would not be easy, he knew. If – when – their relationship became public, there would undoubtedly be opposition, from his own brother not least of all. He could all too easily imagine the cutting words, the disdain.

But he no longer cared. He had only given his heart away twice in his life, and this time, he would not let politics or policy prevent him from loving where he willed.

* * *

**Teagan and Kaitlyn!**

He had wanted a special gift for King Alistair, and remembering the collection of little figurines the man kept on a shelf in his private study, it had been easy to decide what. The difficulty had been in finding a smith able – and willing – to do such fine work on such a small scale. Master Wade, when he'd managed to track the man down, had at least been intrigued by the idea of it, but had refused to undertake the project himself, as he was too engaged with his own work up in Amaranthine. But he _had_ spoken of another smith in Denerim who, he told Teagan, could do the high quality of work that such a fine piece would require.

That had surprised Teagan – he had never known of Wade to speak well of another smith before. At least, not of a _human_ smith, though the man was willing to admit there were dwarven smiths who did work at "adequate" levels of craftsmanship.

The foundry was easy to find, in an area down near the docks that had been largely ruined by the darkspawn and rebuilt in the years since the Blight War. It was a neat, well-built building, smaller than he'd expected, but judging by the bustle of the place doing a steady stream of work. There were several work areas inside the building, with a mixed staff working at them – a pair of dwarves, an older elf, and two young humans, one each male and female.

He was surprised to be led to the female when he asked to speak to the owner. Even further surprised at the smile of recognition she gave him. "Bann Teagan! I am honoured, ser," she said, and smiled at him with unexpected warmth, then cocked her head to one side, smile widening. "I doubt you remember me. Or my brother," she added, gesturing to the young man. "But you saved our lives in Redcliffe, you and the Hero."

He blinked, frowned, then suddenly smiled, as memory matched her face to a younger one. "Kaitlyn! And... Bevin, wasn't it?"

"Yes, ser," the younger of the pair said, looking pleased that he'd recalled their names. The boy had shot up in the years since that dreadful night, up and out, looking every inch the smith he'd apparently grown into. The sister had matured quite nicely as well, and judging by the easy way she handled the hammer in her hand was as much a smith as any worker in the building.

Teagan smiled. "The sword the Hero bought from the two of you is still on display in Redcliffe chantry; he sent it to them, after the war, to use in the memorial for the dead."

Kaitlyn nodded, looking serious. "We owe our lives to the Hero and that sword; not just for the undead he cut down with it that night, but for the money he gave us; it allowed us to relocate to here, afterwards, and make a good life for ourselves. So, what can we help you with?" she asked, all business.

"Well, I want a special gift for Alistair... you remember him, I'm sure?"

"Remembering meeting our king back before he was king? Of course I do," she said, grinning widely.

"Well, he collects figurines... knights and demons and the like. And I was thinking I'd like to give him a pair of them, in the armour he and the Hero were wearing back then, fully articulated and as detailed as possible... good-sized ones, at least two to three spans in height. Master Wade suggested you might be capable of the fineness of work that would require..."

That won a smile from her. A most attractive smile, he couldn't help noticing. She hitched her hip on her anvil, hammer resting across her lap, and nodded thoughtfully. "I can do that," she agreed. "Though they'll each cost you almost as much as a full-sized set of real armour would; scaling down things may use less material, but it means the work will be that much harder to do, and it'll still take about as long in terms of hours of work."

"Excellent," he said, and smiled back at her. "It's almost lunch time – perhaps we could go sit down somewhere and discuss the work in more detail over a meal? My treat, of course."

She smiled again. "I'd enjoy that," she agreed. "If you don't mind a labourer's lunch there's a place around the corner that does an excellent shepherd's pie."

She had a damnably pretty smile, he found himself thinking again. "Sounds delightful," he agreed. And smiled in return.

* * *

**Bann Teagan, Reverence**

Teagan paused, head lifting as he listened to the horrified cries from outside. It was starting again, he knew, the undead emerging from the castle to attack the village that they had once been inhabitants of. The fathers and brothers, the mothers and sisters, the sons and daughters of the very people they were now seeking to kill. Kill, and drag back to the castle with them, to emerge the next night as undead as well, to carry on the terror that had stalked Redcliffe each night for days now. Whatever caused this curse was an abomination, and he could only hope that they would somehow survive this night. That they would have some chance to locate the source of it, to put an end to it, before all here were dead.

It was silent in the chantry, all having fallen quiet to listen to the sounds from outside, the distant shouts, the ring of sword against sword or armour, the cries, the faint screams. Silent, save for the breathing of the masses packed there into the space at the front, gathered around the feet of the statue of Andraste, all the ones too old or too young or too inexperienced to fight.

Teagan rose to his feet, and turned his back to the statue of Andraste, walking a few steps away, toward the doors that sealed the entrance. Most of the men and several of the women were out there; anyone who could bear a weapon, save himself and two injured guards, the last line of defence here inside the chantry if the men outside failed. He didn't know what was worse; to be one of the ones outside fighting their own walking dead, or to be in here, unable to act, only to listen as the battle outside was won or lost by the efforts of others.

He heard the Revered Mother sigh, and begin to pray aloud, a faint whisper of sound, barely audible over the rasp of drawn breaths, the sounds from outside. "Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me."

The gathered villagers joined in, slowly, in voices faint with age, harsh with fear, high with youth. "Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder."

He bowed his head, and drew his sword, setting the tip to the carpet before him, then joined in the prayer as well, speaking the words aloud, his voice calm and even, as unworried in tone as he could make it. The verses filled the small chantry as others raised their own voices a little louder, a little more surely, speaking the verses in unison, the words a balm against the fear they all felt. Voices rose, louder yet, echoing off the walls and ceiling, drowning out the few sobs of people pushed too far by the terror.

The sounds from outside grew louder, closer. The fighting was outside the doors now, the bonfires outside casting distorted shadows on the boarded-up windows as men and monsters struggled just feet away from them, their cries and screams almost drowning out the prayer. Then the noise faded, the cries changing from ones of fear to ones of victory, of relief.

He felt his heart lift, as they spoke the final verse, surprised and gladdened to have survived the night. And closed his eyes, thinking of all those who had _not_ survived previous such nights – who had fallen, in pain and despair only to rise and walk again, and bring horror and death to those they had once loved. "Draw your last breath, my friends, cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker's right hand, and be forgiven."


	24. Ask Box Ficlets 16

**Teagan and Bethany**

Alistair was not at court. Not a great surprise – he slipped off whenever he could. Often he'd be found hours or even days later, sitting in one of the many taverns and inns that dotted the city, dressed like a commoner and sometimes as filthy as one, having spent his time working alongside labourers to clear rubble and raise new buildings. It was not exactly a dignified way for a monarch to carry on, but even Arl Eamon had admitted that it did seem to endear him to his people. They were rather proud of having a king who was as likely to be found in a squalid back-alley tavern hoisting a mug of cheap ale and eating cheese on toast, as with his arse planted in the castle drinking fine wine and eating off gold plates. And who knew which end of a hammer was which, and how to use it, among other skills the king had picked up during the reconstruction of his capital city.

Not there there were gold plates any more – Alistair had ordered them sold to help replenish the treasury. No, it was no surprise to him to arrive at court and find his quasi-nephew not there, and his brother in a froth. "He's run off to the wardens!" Eamon exclaimed angrily, waving a crumpled sheet of parchment in one hand. "Again!"

It took a while to calm his brother and extract the paper from his hand. A brief note from Alistair, dated several days before, mentioning that he was going to "pop off to the Keep and visit for a few days." Teagan hid a smile at his brother's continued rantings, promised to see the King returned forthwith even if he had to drag him along by one ear to do so, then ordered a fresh horse, and set out for Vigil's Keep himself.

He arrived early the next day to find the King just returned an hour before from an expedition with the Warden-Commander, looking quite pleased with himself and still dripping from a bath. He insisted on taking Teagan along to lunch with the Wardens. There was, of course, a great deal of food – an amount that looked excessive for the number of men and women gathered there, but which Teagan knew from previous experience with Grey Wardens was a light meal for their prodigious appetites.

He found himself being dragged around the room in a flurry of introductions, some to people he'd met before – Oghren, the mage with the earring, Howe's son Nathaniel – and some new ones, people recruited since the last time he'd been sent to fetch the king home. He found himself seated next to one such for the meal, a rather pretty dark-haired young woman. He'd been told she was from Kirkwall, but when she spoke to him, the accent of Ferelden was clear in her voice.

"He's not much like I've ever imagined the King of Ferelden being," she said, as she passed him a serving fish full of stewed leeks, nodding her head towards where Alistair had disappeared in the crowd of his fellow wardens.

Teagan smiled. "No. Alistair has never been particularly wed to the idea of pomp and circumstance. Or kingly dignity," he added, as shouts erupted and people scattered while Alistair and the Howe boy started wrestling with more enthusiasm than science in the middle of the floor. Catching a worried look on the woman's face, Teagan smiled again. "Believe it or not, those two are friends," he said, waving his fork in their general direction. "Even if it does look like Alistair is currently trying to insert Nate's foot into his own ear. I don't believe he'll actually succeed," he added thoughtfully.

That startled a rather charming laugh out of the girl. Teagan looked curiously at her. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name," he said.

"Bethany Hawke," she said. "From Kirkwall. Well, from Lothering via Kirkwall," she amended. "We left, during the Blight."

Teagan nodded. "Many did," he said, then frowned in thought. "Hawke... I've heard that name before..."

"Likely," she said, lips pressing closed in a thin line for a moment. "My brother is the Champion of Kirkwall."

"Ah, of course," Teagan exclaimed, and smiled warmly at her. "Which, if I recall our dear Warden-Commander's bragging correctly, would make you some form of cousin to him, does it not?"

"Yes. My mother Leandra was one of the Kirkwall Amells – her father and Michael's grandfather were brothers. Which is why when we left Ferelden that we went there – at least we had family there."

"I stayed in Kirkwall once," Teagan said. "When I was being fostered in the Free Marches during the Orlesian occupation. I was just a small boy then, of course. I acted as page to one of the sons of Lord Tyrell of Ansburg... he used to drag me along to all sorts of unsuitable places. Tell me, is the Hanged Man still there?"

That drew a broad smile from the girl. "You know the Hanged Man?"

"Yes. I fear the young master spent most of our week in Kirkwall there, drinking the most dreadful swill and loosing at Wicked Grace."

She smiled warmly at him. "Sounds like the Hanged Man was much the same then as it is now, then," she said. "It's my brother's favourite place to go and drink with his friends and lose at cards."

"And you?"

"Oh, I went along occasionally as well. It was better than sitting at home with mother and Uncle Gamlen. And unlike my brother, I usually win at cards," she added, eyes glinting mischievously.

Teagan grinned. "So do I. Perhaps we can have a game this evening, if I don't manage to pry Alistair out of here today."

"I believe I might enjoy that," she said, smiling in amusement.

* * *

**Anora/Alistair - If I have to**

He had never seen her so uncertain before. Nervous sometimes, yes, especially during the events leading up to the Landsmeet. But she's always known her mind and spoken it, and while he hadn't particularly _liked_ some of what she'd had to say, he'd quickly come to respect her. She was more than just her father's daughter or his half-brother's widow. She was Queen of Ferelden, no matter that her parent's had both been commonborn, and she'd been raised from childhood to some day _be_ Queen, with everything that meant in terms of learning about responsibility and duty.

Anyway, he could hardly fault her birth, given that he himself was a commonborn bastard, and unlike her, he'd never been giving any training at all in being _royalty_. Nothing beyond what minor courtesies a dog-boy or groom needed to know for dealing with his betters, he thought sourly. It still seemed some sort of sick joke, that he, who had been told so often that he had no place in the succession, and no skill at _leadership_ , was now the King of Ferelden. And Anora, almost a decade his senior, his Queen and wife.

He had never seen her as anything other than coolly regal, face composed and still. But tonight... tonight, she looked up from where she sat on the bed – _their_ bed, from this night on - in the puddled white lace of her nightgown, and he could see, for once, how uncertain she truly was. How frightened, too – frightened of _him_.

"We... don't have to do this, tonight," he said, softly.

She stiffened slightly, turned her head a little away. "It will get no easier for being put off," she said, voice calm, but the slight tremor in her hands betrayed just how little calm she was actually feeling.

He swallowed, his hands closing on the hem of his tunic, uncertainly. "I've never..." he said, and trailed off, flushing with embarrassment.

She looked at him again, with some surprise. "Never what... oh. You mean you're..." she stopped, looking shocked.

"A virgin, yes," he said, blush deepening. "I was raised in the chantry since I was ten, don't forget. Almost a templar and all that," he added, trying for a lighthearted tone and failing miserably.

She cocked her head slightly to one side, blue eyes fastened on him. "Maker... if anything would make me think you're not much like Cailan, that would be it," she said bluntly. "He lost his virginity as soon as he could manage it. To a kitchen maid, as I recall. And then celebrated the feat by taking on a bath attendant, he later told me."

He blinked. "And you... you knew about his..."

"His inability to keep it in his pants?" she said, dryly. "Yes. A family trait among Theirin men, my father always gave me to understand. Witness your own birth."

She looked away again. "I knew all Cailan's faults. We were raised almost as close as if we were brother and sister, after his mother died and my father brought me to Denerim to join him. We were betrothed while still children; Maric's idea, though I doubt my father put up much resistance to it. He never was as good as he could have been at telling Maric no. Not and making it stick. Not that I can blame him," she added, almost ruefully, and smiled. "I was little better at telling Cailan no. I knew all his faults, but I loved him anyway," she said, softly.

Alistair looked away. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"For what?" she asked, looking up at him again, eyes suspiciously bright.

"That this whole mess has been forced on you like this. That I remind you of him. That... that he died, and I never knew anything at all about him, except that he was my half-brother, and liked fancy weapons more than dogs."

She gave him a surprised look. "How do you know that?" she asked, curious.

"Arl Eamon brought me to Denerim once, when I was still one of his dog-boys. Tending a puppy – a gift for some spoiled young noble. Not a mabari, one of his sight-hounds. Anyway, Cailan was there, at the party. I didn't even know he was my brother, then. He didn't think much of the dog, but he rather obviously coveted an enamelled dagger that was one of the other presents."

She laughed, surprised and delighted. "I remember that party. And that dagger. He talked his father into getting him one just like it, later."

She sighed, and then curled up, arms around her upraised knees. It made her look very young, he though; as if no more than a year or two separated them in age. "Come," she said, and reached out with one hand to pat the bedding beside her. "Sit. You're right, you _do_ remind me a lot of your brother, at least in looks, and... I suppose that does you a disservice. You're _not_ Cailan."

"No, I'm not," he agreed, then walked over, and sat down beside her. He looked at her, then away again. "I'm not my brother. Or my father. I'm no noble, either, for all I've been made King. And I know that if I'm not going to make a total mess of things, I'm going to need help. Arl Eamon thinks it should be _his_ help," he added, a touch of bitterness in his voice. "I... don't entirely trust his intentions, for all he had the raising of me. Perhaps _particularly_ because he had the raising of me."

He glanced at her again. She was watching him, listening closely. "I don't want to fail at this. Because if I fail, it hurts a lot more people than just me. It hurts the whole country, and Ferelden has enough problems already. I..." he paused, frowned. "I wish we could be friends. _You_ know how to rule; you've been raised to it. From what I've heard, my brother spent his time doing whatever the Fade he felt like, and left the responsibility part of things to you. I don't _want_ to be that kind of king. I don't want to be my brother. I don't want to have my brother's life _or_ my brother's wife."

He looked at her, meeting her eyes again. "Can we try to be friends? I think that's far more important to our future, to _Ferelden's_ future than... than having a proper wedding night tonight."

She smiled then. A very small smile. And took his hand in both of hers. "I hated the idea of marrying you, you know," she said. "So very much like Cailan, at least in looks... but you're _not_ him. And I begin to think your Warden was wiser than I first thought, when he insisted on the two of us marrying. All right. Yes. Let's work on learning to work together first of all. We can do something about your unfortunate virginity some other time."

Alistair gave her a look. "You're laughing at me," he scolded, mildly. And smiled. "Thank you," he said, and squeezed her hand. "Is it okay then, if tonight we just... talk?"

"Yes," she said. And smiled, a warm calm smile that gave him hope that maybe this might work out after all. "Tell me about growing up in Redcliffe."

* * *

**Sten, Wynne, fifteen minutes**

"The more you hang over my shoulder like that, the longer this is going to take," Wynne said, a touch waspishly. It was not the first time she'd turned to pick up something only to find the Qunari looming at her back. The Warden might chose to trust Sten, but Wynne herself was not entirely sure _she_ did. Not with what she'd heard about how the qunari treated their own mages.

Sten moved back a few paces, then resumed his watchful waiting, keeping a close eye on what ingredients she used. He shifted position uneasily a few times as she measured and stirred, then folded his arms and forced himself to remain still while she divided the mixture into portions.

"How much longer will this take?" he finally asked irritably.

"Fifteen more minutes," she said complacently as she slid the sheet into the oven. "Twelve minutes for the cookies to bake, and three for them to cool, unless you _want_ to burn your fingers."

Sten burnt his fingers.

* * *

**Cailan/Loghain – Inappropriate**

He was going to kill Maric. First, he was going to _find_ the bastard, and then he was going to kill him.

"I'm sorry, my Prince," he said, striving to keep his voice calm. "I don't know where your father is. The last I saw of him he was retiring to his room for the night."

"Well, he's not there now," Cailan said, lower lip sticking out in a stubborn pout. Loghain ground his teeth together, suppressing his anger at the boy's father. Doubtless Maric had decided to slip off to the Pearl again for another night of roistering, believing his son safely asleep. Except Cailan rarely slept well any longer since his father's recent lengthy absence in the Deep Roads, and when he did wake, he invariably wanted his father, and wouldn't sleep again until he'd found him.

He glanced at the two guards at Cailan's back and half-wished the pair of them had made the boy stay in his room, where he should be, but knew from prior experience with the boy that the effort would have been counterproductive, just making him even more upset and more in need of reassurance. Reassurance he would only accept from his father; he'd been willing to treat Loghain as an acceptable substitute during his father's absence, but since King Maric's return he had stubbornly refused all comfort from anyone else when he wanted his father.

And Maric, damn him to the Fade, thought his son's stubbornness was _amusing_ , and merely a passing phase the young prince would soon grow out of. Little seeing or, it seemed, caring, that his prolonged absence had hurt his son.

"Right," Loghain said, abruptly. "Let's go find your father. I think I may know where he is. Go put your shoes and cloak on – I need to put on some clothes."

He ignored the worried look the guards exchanged, as he lifted the young prince up in front of him on horseback some little time later, and set out for the Pearl – with a suitable escort of guards, of course, he was not foolish enough to put the prince at any real risk. Cailan sat quietly before him, trusting him, as they rode down to the lower city.

Loghain led him by the hand into the Pearl, ignoring Sanga's suddenly pale face as he marched down the hallway to the room that he knew Maric favoured for his trysts. He did not bother knocking, nor acknowledging the guards at the door, but simply pushed past them and made his way inside.

Maric, he was pleased to see, was not fool enough to have relied solely on his guards for his safety – the king was surging up out of bed, bare-arsed but weapon in hand, before Loghain had even come to a stop.

"Damn it, man!" Maric roared angrily, coming to a stop as he recognized who had just burst in. "Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed..." He broke off abruptly as he saw who was with Loghain, saw Cailan staring wide-eyed at him.

"Your son needed you, your Majesty," Loghain said, coldly. "I promised him I would bring him to you."

Maric flushed, caught between anger and embarrassment. "This is hardly an appropriate place..." he began.

"No, it's not," Loghain cut him off. "There are guards and a horse waiting outside, your Majesty. Why don't you take your son back to bed."

Maric glared at him as he hurriedly pulled his clothing back on. "We will talk about this tomorrow," he grated out before lifting Cailan up in his arms and stalking out of the room.

"I'm sure we will, your Majesty," Loghain said quietly, and followed after.

* * *

**Fenders done right. After all anything is possible**

Fenris heard the door downstairs scrape open, then shut again, and the familiar pace of booted feet across loose floor tiles. He did not need to rise and look to see who it was. Even had the sounds of Anders' footfalls not been as recognizable to Fenris as the sound of his own voice, there was the way that the abomination's near-presence sent a slight tingling through the marks graved in his flesh.

"Mage," he said, softly, when the footsteps paused in the doorway behind his back. Acknowledgement. Identification. He did not look back, but merely reached out to one side, lifted the newly opened bottle of wine on the table beside him by its neck for a moment, then lowered it again. "Join me."

"Elf," Anders said, voice dry, his tone one of suppressed amusement. He always seemed amused about something, when he wasn't angry. One of the things about him that always aggravated Fenris. The footsteps resumed. He walked past Fenris' chair, sat down in the other. Not a matching chair; this one had been carried in from elsewhere in the house, part of a different set than what this room had originally been furnished with.

Fenris watched silently as he sat, taking in his appearance. The mage slumped a little, as if too tired to remain as stiffly upright as he normally remained in the elf's presence. He was lightly tanned from all the time he'd been spending out on the Wounded Coast with Hawke lately. It made the faint lines at the corners of his eyes stand out more – untanned in the crevices, from him squinting in the bright sunlight, and darker everywhere else. The bridge of his nose and top curve of his cheeks were slightly reddened, from windburn or sunburn. Undoubtedly he'd had a hard day today – at least it seemed to only ever be after such that he dared to visit Fenris.

Silently he lifted and held out the bottle, watching through lowered eyelids as Anders leaned forward to close his hand around the base of it and accept it from him. He did not make a ritual of drinking it, as some of Fenris' other infrequent visitors did, but instead just lifted it and drank directly from the neck, thirstily, as Fenris himself usually did.

"Keep it," Fenris said when the mage started to hand it back. "I've had enough for now."

Anders nodded, then settled back in the chair, both hands wrapped around the bottle, balancing it upright on his stomach. He studied Fenris in turn, saying nothing, but occasionally lifting the bottle to drink again. Only once he'd downed half of it did he finally rise to his feet, and set it aside on the table, before stepping close to Fenris.

Fenris tensed, just slightly, as he always did. He could not bring himself to trust the man, no matter what passed between them, nor for how long they had been doing this. There was always that fear, the fear that would never go away, that this man was a _mage_ , and therefore not ever to be trusted. Dangerous, as a poisonous snake was; it might coil up quite prettily in your hand, at ease and seemingly safe, but one wrong move and it would strike. And yet the danger was part of the attraction in this potentially deadly interaction between them.

Anders leaned over, one hand reaching out to rest on the back of Fenris' chair, very careful not to touch the elf himself. Fenris' jaw tightened, momentarily, and a faint glow sprung up around him, an almost involuntary activation of his powers. He forced himself to remain still as the mage bent closer.

Lips brushed his, softly, tentatively. He allowed the kiss, though he did not precisely welcome it. When Anders kissed him a second time, sought to deepen it, he set his fingertips lightly to the man's chest; subtle warning. And scowled, as Anders laughed softly, and reached to set his own hand over top of Fenris'. He would have snatched his hand away, or perhaps reached into Anders' chest in more explicit disapproval of his unwanted touch, but Anders wisely removed his own first, then stepped quickly back away, out of touching range.

"Bed?" the mage asked, seemingly ignoring what a knife's edge his behaviour walked along.

"Yes. Get rid of those damned feather dusters first," he said, nodding at the ridiculous mantel the mage affected, and pushed himself to his feet. He turned his back on the mage, though it made him tense up to do so, his scars flaring brighter in response to his tension, and stripped off his own clothes, dropping them in a pile on the floor by the bed.

"You have got to be the least sexy undresser I have ever seen," Anders said. "And you never even bother to watch _me_ undressing. Makes me feel like it's a total waste to even try."

"I hardly care about the aesthetics of the act of removing clothing," Fenris said sharply. "Get on the bed."

Anders snorted, and stalked past him, turning and dropping heavily to sit on the edge of the bed. He leaned back, legs slightly spread and a teasing smile on his face. He looked up at Fenris as the elf stepped closer to him, smile fading slightly. "Now what?" Anders asked, voice gone suddenly husky.

Fenris' answer was not in words. He reached out with one hand, combing his fingers through the other man's hair, stripping out the tie that held it back. He twined the fingers of his hand into the hair, wishing it was longer, long enough to wrap more than once around his hand. But once was enough; enough for control. He set the fingertips of his other hand to the mage's cheek, touched his thumb to Anders' lips, frowned slightly as the man nipped playfully at it. He did not much care for play.

At least the mage knew him well enough to read his expression and know he had erred. To stop even before Fenris' hand had tightened in his hair in reprimand.

"Sorry," he whispered, then opened his mouth, sucking Fenris' thumb into it, eyes dropping shut as he sucked on it, then rolled it gently between his teeth, tongue laving at it.

Fenris shivered at the feeling of it, warm soft tongue and hard sharp teeth worrying at his flesh, the intense feeling of it when Anders sucked firmly making his toes curl and his cock rise. "Good," he said, voice low and soft, and loosened his grip on the man's hair, the only praise the mage would receive for his cooperation. He slid his thumb free again, and guided the man's head to where he wanted it to be, eye sliding shut and head rolling backwards at the pleasure of Anders' mouth closing warm and moist around him.

It bothered him, at times, how much he enjoyed it, these infrequent visits from the other man. These strange, fraught encounters they had. How much he enjoyed controlling him – not as he himself had been controlled, with absolutely no choice in the matter, but instead controlling him because Anders _allowed_ it. Wanted it. _Enjoyed_ the illusion of being forced at least as much as Fenris enjoyed the illusion of controlling him.

It was, he sometimes thought, something broken in both of them. There was certainly no love or tenderness in what they did; only need. Only that. He told himself that, each time. Because there could be no real feeling between a mage, and what he was; it was not possible.

But he still allowed the kisses, each time that Anders visited.


	25. Ask Box Ficlets 17 - First Times Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's "First Times Week" on Tumblr for Dragon Age Fan Week (referring to a rather specific first time). So I took a pile of prompts again, many of which revolve around or refer to the first times of one or more of the characters involved around in them. Only a couple cross the line into "mild smut" territory.

**Bethany/Nathaniel**

They looked much alike, in some ways. Pale skin, long glossy hair. A sizable bow slung across his back; a sizable staff at hers. They were both well-spoken, in the way of the noble-born. Nathaniel had been surprised to learn of her childhood in rural Ferelden; nodded understandingly when he heard of her well-born mother. They had other things in common as well; difficult pasts with their families. The desire to be seen for themselves, judged by their own actions, not by what father or brother had done. A liking for good books, for well-cooked meals, for fine wines and interesting conversation.

It formed the first tenuous roots of a friendship between them.

"Did you ever see..." he would ask, referring to places in Kirkwall he remembered from his handful of visits there while being fostered in the Free Marches.

She would laugh, and smile, and tell him stories about the place - who lived there now, or how the people had changed. Or had stayed the same.

"That priest... the archer..."

"Sebastian," she said, smiling. A slightly sad smile. " _He's_ all right."

She did not think much of most of her brother's friends, it seemed, but then he could have said much the same, about the collection of ne'er-do-wells that had been Thomas' closest companions. Another thing they shared.

And late one evening, both of them slightly drunk on very good wine, they shared more, as well. A look. A kiss. A lingering touch.

"I've never..." he admitted, flushing in confused embarrassment when she took him by the hand, and began to lead him over to the bed.

"Neither have I," she said calmly, and turned to look at him, smiling, one eyebrow arching high. "Does it matter?"

"I suppose not," he said, after a moment, and let himself be led.

Something else to share. Another little way in which they were alike, both before, and after, when she lay in his arms, head resting on his shoulder, one arm draped over him, one leg hooked over his

"I could get to like this," she said, tilting her head back to smile up at him.

A smile he echoed. "So could I."

* * *

**Alistair/Nida Mahariel**

She had gone very quiet, Alistair could not help noticing. Even more quiet than she normally was. She sat by the fire, staring sightlessly at the flames, her bow in her lap. A dark silhouette, save where the firelight lit the edges of her armour, gilded her long blonde hair.

He stood and watched her for a long time before finally making his way over to sit down beside her. He didn't actually say anything – he didn't know what to say. What _could_ you say, to someone who had gone through what she just had? To have discovered that her friend Tamlen had not died after all – yet would have better off if he had. To be forced to fight him – to _kill_ him. Or see him killed, rather – Alistair was thankful the finishing blow had come from Zevran, not from her. That had been bad enough.

She didn't say anything. She glanced at him, just once, a brief glimpse of bright green eyes in a painfully still face before turning her head away again. But after a while, she leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder, not saying anything, not crying, just... _there_.

He stayed like that with her the rest of the night, neither of them sleeping.

* * *

**Teagan/Fergus**

Teagan set the open bottle down on the small table between the pair of armchairs, then took a seat. Fergus lifted the bottle, studied its label for a moment, then grunted in approval before pouring himself a glass. "You have good taste," he said, as he swirled the brandy and then lifted his goblet to study the thin coating of it on the glass.

"Technically my brother does," Teagan said, lifting the bottle to pour a little into his own glass. "Seeing as it's from his wine cellar."

Fergus smiled, and sipped at his brandy, then stared into the fire. They drank in silence for a while.

"Four more days," Fergus said softly after a while.

Teagan grunted. "Do you regret it?" he asked.

Fergus frowned slightly, then shook his head. "No. It solves... many problems, for the two of us to marry. And I've always gotten along well with Anora. The fact that we've both lost people we love in this damned war..." He broke off, then shrugged. "We know we're not marrying for love. Respect will do."

He fell silent again, staring at the fire, then glanced over at the Bann. "Were you ever in love, Teagan?"

Teagan smiled slightly. "Yes. Twice, actually."

"Oh? You surprise me... your reputation..." he trailed off.

"I've always been discrete," Teagan said, and his smile deepened slightly. He sipped at his brandy, then looked at Fergus. "The first was totally unsuitable. An older woman, when I was being fostered in the Free Marches. She was a seamstress, working for my Lord's lady-wife. She relieved me of my virginity, and quite a few inhibitions," he explained, and smiled again. "And a certain amount of coin in the way of small gifts, which I consider to have been well repaid by all the useful advice about women that she gave me. A good woman, overall. I still count myself lucky to have known her, brief a time as it was before Eamon had me called home."

"And the second?" Fergus asked, curiously.

Teagan smiled then, warmly. "She was something. A little younger than I, and so beautiful... I'd have married her in a heartbeat. But..." he paused, shrugged. "Her father thought she could do better than a minor Ferelden dog lord. And a year or two later, she did." He looked at Fergus. "Was there ever anyone for you, other than Oriana?"

"No," Fergus said, quietly, and looked down at the glass cupped in his hands. "I went to my marriage bed a virgin, believe it or not. I remember how... surprised she was, when she realized I hadn't any clue of how to go about things," he said, and blushed, a fond smile momentarily curving his lips. "She was a virgin too, but her mother and aunts had been very, umm... _open_ with her about what was to be expected. She was rather smug about that," he said, and his smile widened a little further. "She used to joke about how at least she hadn't had to train me out of any bad habits, but only into good ones," he said.

His smile faded, then, a bleak look crossing his features. "I love her still, Maker help me. I will to the day I die."

Teagan nodded. He said nothing further, just picked up the bottle and held it out.

* * *

**Alistair/f!Surana – mutual defloration**

He hadn't thought it would be easy, but he also hadn't thought it would be anywhere near this hard. _Difficult_ , he mentally corrected himself, and blushed. The way she kept giggling was not helping at all, even if it was not _him_ she was laughing at, but rather over her own struggles to unfasten her robe.

"Oh, Maker... how many years I've been peeling out of these blighted things without thought, and now I've gone and jammed the knot of the damned tie..." she exclaimed, and giggled again, hands busy somewhere out of sight in the layered clothing.

"Errr... perhaps I could..." he suggested after a moment, lifting his hands tentatively towards her.

She sighed, and extracted her hands. "I suppose. Just... be careful. I'm ticklish."

It went better after that. He was good an unpicking knots, from all those years of working in the stable, and once he'd managed to bring himself to ignore the rather fascinating location of this particular knot, it came apart easily enough. He looked up to say something, from where he was knelt down by her feet, and found his breath taken away by the way she was looking down at him. The expression on her face, lit on only one side by the nearby fire. His mouth went dry.

She bit her lower lip, and smiled, then reached out to touch his cheek, the faintest of blushes colouring her cheek. He turned his head enough to kiss the palm of her hand, then kept watching her, their eyes locked, as his hand sought out and undid the remaining ties and buckles, lifting off and setting aside each piece of clothing in turn. Rather like unbarding a horse, he thought irreverently, only much sexier.

She smiled, as if having heard his thought, and abruptly hooked her fingers into the neck of his armour, tugging upwards. "My turn. You're overdressed for this," she pointed out.

He followed the tug and rose to his feet, watching silently as she investigated his armour, figuring out where the buckles were and beginning to take it apart. He didn't offer any advice or help, just watched as she worked on it, occasionally muttering under her breath over some particularly recalcitrant buckle or overly stiff strap. She was looking quite pleased with herself by the time she had him down to his arming jacket and leggings. Removing those required his active co-operation, which he was happy to give.

They stood and looked at each other afterwards, studying each other's near-naked form. She reached out after a while, hesitantly setting her tiny hand against his flat stomach, then traced one finger down the cut lune between stomach and hip. He was ticklish enough to flinch away from that, and laugh. Then leaned down, and when she looked up, kissed her.

Things went very well after that, both of them slowly exploring each other's body, with eyes and touches, and after a while, lips and tongue. He knew how good a hand felt in a certain place, and was surprised by how much better it was when it was someone else's hand, and you had no idea just how it was going to move, or what else might be being touched or kissed or sucked on at the same time. His own hands sought out similarly sensitive places on her, and judging by the sounds she made, the way it made her arch and move, it felt as good to her as what she was doing to him.

They did, eventually, work out where all the relevant bits fit together, and that was even better, though it worried him when he saw that it hurt her, at first.

"It's supposed to," she assured him, and made him keep going, and after a while it was obvious that it wasn't hurting any more, or at least had more of pleasure than of pain. And after that is was very, very good.

"You look smug," she pointed out afterwards, as she lay stretched out beside him, his arm draped around her waist.

"So," he pointed out, smiling, "Do you."

* * *

**Pre-Chantry Sebastian/Anyone**

He always had a different story, when asked.

It had been a serving maid, he said, a few years older than himself, with long blond hair and cornflower blue eyes, fresh from the country and as virginal as he was. He'd been awkwardly flirting with her every time he saw her for weeks. She was supposed to be making his bed, he said. And did, eventually, but first she made him a man.

It had been a friend of his mother's, a mature matronly lady who proved to be a confusing mix of motherly and inventive in bed. She'd had a beautiful smile, dark-dyed hair, and an earthy laugh, and no one had ever guessed what additional things she'd taught the handsome young prince who'd been loaned to her as a page during her brief stay in Starkhaven.

It was an expensive courtesan – "Not a _whore_ , boy!" – hired for the occasion by his irascible old grandfather after the old man had caught him trying to sweet talk one of the kitchen maids. The night had been an education. As was the lecture Grandfather gave him the next day about the rights and responsibilities he had as a young prince, and third in line for the throne. Among them treating the help well, and the need to neither impregnate anyone, nor catch a pox.

It was a dairy maid at the farms attached to the family estate. One that he knew, from overhearing his brothers talk of her, was open to approach, if one was suitably diplomatic about it and made sure to bring some small gift along for her. She took him up to the hay loft, and he had his first time there, surrounded by the sounds and smells of the cows in the warm barn below. His clothes had been full of prickles from the hay afterwards, but what he remembered best was the pleasant smell of the hay, and the warmth, of the place and of her smile, and of her hands wrapped strong and sure around him as she milked him of his seed.

It was a cheap whore in a brothel down near the docks, after he'd snuck out on a dare with some of the other younger sons. It was only afterwards that he realized the dare had been offered maliciously, and that no one had objected when he accepted it because no one had expected him to actually carry through with it. It gained him a peculiar notoriety and admiration within his set that lasted for years afterwards. And hadn't been half-bad, though getting treatment for the itch he developed a few days later had been one of the most deeply embarrassing things he'd ever had to do in his young life.

It was a nobleman's daughter. She was at a ball, the invited guest of one of his older brothers, who'd abandoned her after the first two dances to go and pay court on someone else. He'd found her in a corner, face stiff and been moved to ask her for a dance. She turned him down at first, and then changed her mind and danced with him. They'd talked for a while afterwards, in a quiet corner, finding they had interests in common, and became friends of a sort. A few weeks later they went on a ride in the country, with a picnic basket, where she'd taught him some interesting uses for mouths that had nothing to do with the food they'd brought along. He enjoyed her company for the rest of the spring, and then her family went off to their country estate for the summer, where she met someone else. She was engaged by the fall, and married by the following spring. They remained good friends.

"But what's the _true_ story of your first time?" Isabela asked, fascinated, one evening after prying yet another story of his first time out of him over cards and drinks at the Hanged Man.

Sebastian laughed, relaxed and at his ease. "Any of them might be the true one. A few of them may even have actually happened, or something like them. But a gentleman doesn't tell," he said, then smiled pleasantly, blue eyes twinkling, and sipped at his well-watered wine.

* * *

**Cauthrien/Nathaniel, Cauthrien as the 30-odd year old virgin**

"You constantly surprise me," Nathaniel said, looking thoughtfully at the woman seated across from him at the table. "I'm sorry," he hastened to add when she flushed. "I... meant that in an admiring way, not..." he floundered to a stop, then smiled crookedly. "I don't suppose we can try that again, from the start?"

That startled a laugh out of her. A laugh, followed by a smile as she looked down at her plate. "No. But I'll accept that you had good intentions," she said, and neatly ate a mouthful of sliced carrots.

Nathaniel smiled warmly at her. "Thank you," he said, and turned his attention to his own plate. A silence fell, one that stretched out rather uncomfortably long.

Cauthrien finally snorted, and sat back in her chair. "You're wondering why, and are too well-mannered to just ask," she said.

He blushed, then when he saw the smile on her face, laughed self-consciously. "Yes. May I ask? You don't, of course, have to answer... I am merely surprised that a woman as lovely and accomplished as you is, err..."

"Not accomplished in that particular field of endeavour?" she asked, one eyebrow rising in a graceful arch, then smiled again. She picked up her glass of wine, and sipped it, then shrugged. "Circumstances. When I was growing up on my father's farm, I knew that pregnancy would mean an end to any hope I had of being anything more than someone's wife. I'd be married off as soon as someone noticed that my belly was swelling. So I never slept with anyone. And then after Teryn Loghain recruited me... well," she said, and smiled. "I will admit that I had rather a bad case of hero worship for quite a few years. Not that anything ever came of it, of course. And then by the time I outgrew my youthful infatuation..."

She shrugged again, took another sip of wine, then sat looking into the goblet held cupped in her hand. "Well. By then I was climbing the ranks, and I knew that two ways to end my career, or at the very least put it on hold, would be to either get involved with someone unsuitable, or, worse, get involved with someone and get pregnant. Swelling bellies don't _fit_ in armour."

Nathaniel tilted his head thoughtfully to one side. "I suppose the risk of pregnancy does make it rather different for female soldiers than for male."

"Yes. Just a bit," she said, dryly. "I suppose it's just as well I never particularly wanted children anyway," she added pensively. "Being a Grey Warden, and everything that goes with that. I suppose it's... rather less of a concern, now."

Nathaniel smiled, and this time he was the one to raise an eyebrow. "Thinking of acquiring some proficiency in the field?"

She smirked, keeping her gave on her wine glass, and ran one finger delicately around the upper edge. "Perhaps. If I happened to meet a suitable candidate for tutoring me in the art of it."

"Mmmm. And what qualifications would such a candidate have to have?" he asked.

She put down her wineglass, and began ticking points off on her fingers. "Well, someone trustworthy for one. Experienced, of course. Handsome wouldn't hurt, though them being a friend is rather higher on my list..." she said, then looked up at him, and grinned. "I don't suppose you have a suitable candidate in mind?" she asked.

"I might," he said, and smiled warmly at her. "Perhaps we could discuss it further? In my room? Over drinks?" He finished hopefully.

"I think my room might be better," she said after a moment's thought. Then answered his enquiring look. "I don't have anyone in the room adjacent to mine. And I'm sure it will require us sitting up late. To, err..."

He slowly grinned. "Discuss tactics and strategy? Demonstrate manoeuvres? Practise moves?"

She laughed, and rose to her feet, picking up her glass in one hand, and the wine bottle in her other. "Yes. Exactly," she said, and led the way off to her room.

* * *

**Bethany/Anders – Bethany recovering from an injury, Anders is beating himself up about her getting hurt**

"Could you please stop _fussing_ ," Bethany snapped, slamming her book down on the small table beside her chair. She rose to her feet, and hobbled across the room, ignoring Anders' sputtering protests. "I'm _fine_. It's no one's fault but my own for not watching my footing. Maker, Anders, you'd think you were my mother the way you're carrying on," she said sharply.

He came to a stop, watching as she slid one hip up onto the high stool at the work bench, and then began taking supplies off the shelves, clearly preparing to work on making up another batch of elf-root poultices. Her back and shoulders were stiff, her head bent over the task, in a way that said as clearly as words that she intended to ignore him. He slumped, feeling miserable, and not entirely sure why her being annoyed with him made him feel like a scolded puppy.

"Sorry," he said, after a while. "I'll just... go roll bandages, or something..."

"You do that," she said, voice a touch icy.

He turned away, walking across the empty clinic to sink down on a bench near the door, dragging a lopsided basket full of well-washed old clothing out from underneath it. He lifted out a pair of badly torn trousers, took the small sharp knife from his belt, and set to work tearing the thin cloth into neat strips, from cuffs to waistband, cutting each neatly off and draping it over his knee. The ripping of fabric was rather cathartic, and he was feeling in a much better mood by the time he set to rolling up each strip into a neat cylinder, his long thin fingers working quickly at the oft-repeated task.

While he kept his eyes mainly on his task, he couldn't resist sneaking peeks at her from time to time, and feeling vaguely guilty over his admiration for her small, trim form. Unlike her brother, she clearly believed that appearances mattered, and was dressed neatly and cleanly, well enough that she wouldn't have gotten a second look in the Hightown Market – apart from for her beauty, that is – but not so well that she stood out like a sore thumb down here in Darktown either. She had class, he found himself thinking. And grace, when she wasn't slipping on algae-slimed rocks in some blighted cave on the Wounded Coast.

She was, he had to admit, right that he was fussing unnecessarily. And given that she was fully as capable – and as ruthless, when it was needed – as her brother, perhaps attempting to coddle her was not the best of ways to please her.

He avoided thinking too much about _why_ he so much wanted to please her, being just as good at lying to himself as the next man.

* * *

**Bethany/Anders – Bethany's Birthday**

She couldn't help but smile when she saw who was at the door, tall and lanky and looking far more nervous then he ever did in the places he was most comfortable – his clinic in Darktown, or in Varric's rooms at the Hanged Man.

"I, err... it's a beautiful evening," Anders said, gesturing vaguely at the sky above, what little of it was visible between the tenements, thick with smoke from the nearby foundries. "I wondered if you might like to go for a walk? With me?"

She was surprised at the offer, but couldn't think of any reason to refuse. "All right," she agreed. "Wait there a moment while I get my shawl," she said, and closed the door before he could protest or, worse, come in, where he'd be a target for the sniping of her Uncle Gamlen, or the amused looks of her brother.

"I'm borrowing your shawl, mother," she sad calmly as she swept past her mother, going into the small room the two of them shared. Leandra made some vaguely affirmative noise, but was too caught up in her perpetual letter-writing campaign – letters that she sent Bethany to deliver, with monotonous regularity, to the Seneschal's office in the Viscount's Keep – to make any real comment.

Bethany draped the shawl – a pretty thing, nicely embroidered – around her shoulders before leaving the house. Anders was waiting outside, looking ill-at-ease, rubbing one hand across the back of the other, his weight shifting from side to side. She hid a smile, as she stepped closer to him, thinking once again how blighted _tall_ the man was. She wasn't actually short herself, but she wasn't tall either, and all of her brother's friends seemed to tower over her, apart from the dwarf, and Merrill, who was almost exactly the same height as she was. Everyone else was taller than her. Even _Fenris_ was noticeably taller than she, at least when he could be bothered to stand up straight instead of slouching along in his habitual cowed crouch.

Still, she rather liked Anders' height. There was something oddly reassuring about it, about how the top of her head came up just slightly lower than his chin, which she knew from the one time he'd given her a brief, comforting hug after one of the patients at his clinic had died. He'd tucked his head down over hers, his long arms wrapped around her, and for just a brief moment, she'd felt so _safe_...

"So. Where are we going?" she asked him.

"Oh, well... um. I suppose it's too late for the Docks," he said, frowning up at the darkening sky. "We could go look at the alienage tree?"

"The vhenadahl? Certainly," she agreed easily, and led the way down the steps, waiting a moment at the bottom for him to catch up and walk by her side. After which they strolled off down the laneway between the buildings, and then down the winding flights of stairs towards the alienage.

Anders didn't speak at all, though he opened his mouth and made sounds a couple of times as if he was about to. But when she'd turn her head and look at him, he'd fall silent again. They reached the alienage, and stood a while in the open space between the foot of the stairs and the base of the tree, silently looking up at it. After a while Bethany turned away, and walked over to the west side of the courtyard, where she could look off in the direction of the docks, and see the sunset lighting up the clouds and smoke above the city. Not a particularly impressive sunset, more tones of grey and lavender than the bright colours it sometimes became, but pretty enough, she supposed.

Anders followed her. When she glanced toward him, she caught him staring at her, and for some reason found herself blushing and looking away, unable to continue to meet his gaze. She wondered at his silence; he'd been so odd of late, not his usual chatterbox self at all.

"We should go back," she pointed out after a while, as grey faded to black and lavender to purple. "It's getting late."

"Err, yes," he said, and followed silently along as she headed back up the stairs.

It was only when they were almost back to her uncle's home that he finally spoke, reaching out to lightly touch his fingers to her arm and stop her. "Umm. Your brother mentioned it was your birthday, tomorrow," he said. "We'll be out on the Wounded Coast though, so I thought... I might... here," he said, and pulled a small clumsily wrapped parcel out of one pocket, thrusting it toward her.

She stared at it in surprise, then at him, then slowly accepted it. "I... don't know what to say," she said, feeling stunned. "Thank you," she said, and started to untie the frayed length of faded ribbon holding the wrappings closed.

He put his fingers over hers, stopping her, and flushed when she gave him a puzzled look. "Open it tomorrow. For your birthday," he told her. "I... I should go," he added, and released her, turned, and hurried off, shoulders hunched and head lowered, before she could recover from her surprise enough to say anything.

She drew a deep breath, one hand holding the shawl tightly closed, the other curling around the small box, cradling it against her. A faint smile curved her lips, as one possible reason for Anders' odd behaviour around her of late belatedly occurred to her. She watch him hurrying away until he disappeared around a corner, out of her line of sight, then slipped the little box into her pocket. "Tomorrow," she murmured, and smiled again, then turned and went home, a bounce in her step.

* * *

**Fenris' First Name Day**

Danarius was dead, and he was free.

He had said he was _free_ , many times over the years since fleeing Tevinter, and yet only now was he truly free, he had come to realize. Only now that he could really believe that Danarius was beyond being able to ever reclaim him. Dead. Dead by his hand, as was his traitorous bitch of a sister and that harridan Hadriana.

The thought should have pleased him. And yet it did not.

He could not help remembering Varania's final spiteful words before he'd killed her, how she'd called him _Leto_. A name from a past he could not remember. Whomever Leto had been, that was not he; the only connection between them was that they had occupied the same body. Whomever Leto had been, Danarius had killed him. What had rose from that blood-soaked table afterwards was _Fenris_ , Danarius' dangerous little pet.

He found himself considering the question of whether he was still Fenris. Fenris had been Danarius' creation. His slave. His leashed but never muzzled guard dog. His prize and plaything, at times. All ended, now. All roles of the past, never to be returned to.

He felt almost lost, with Danarius gone. So much of his life had revolved around the man, the first half of it – or at least, the first half of what he could _remember_ of it – within Danarius' control, and the second half in opposition to him. Fleeing him. Denying him. Having him finally gone, dead... it was as if he'd been leaning against a wall, and the wall was suddenly removed. He felt... off-kilter. Unbalanced Likely to fall over at the slightest touch.

Or perhaps it was more like one of the low, wind-swept trees one sometimes saw growing along the Wounded Coast, bent and gnarled and twisted by the force of the unending winds that swept in off the Waking Sea. He had been shaped by Danarius, as the wind shaped the trees. Even with the wind gone, he would still stand twisted by it.

A dark thought. One he would have to remember to share with Sebastian some time. Doubtless his friend would have something pithy to say about it. Or would at least be amused by it.

He would have to give proper thought to this issue of who he was, he decided. Danarius had killed Leto, in every way that counted save one, and made of him Fenris. Now that Fenris had killed Danarius, did that make him someone else yet again?

He spent most of the next week hidden away in the mansion – _his_ mansion, now, as Danarius was never going to reclaim it. He spent the first three days drinking, the fourth recovering from drinking, and the final three cleaning up, something he had never bothered doing while Danarius yet lived, since he enjoyed seeing the sty that had become of the magister's once-fine property.

And at the end of the week, he'd made his decision. He bathed and dressed neatly, not in his old armour, made to fit him by Danarius' order, but in plain well-made clothing. He went shopping in the market, and then visited the chantry, where a few soft-spoken words convinced Sebastian to find someone else to assume his duties for the rest of the morning, and come to the mansion to help him.

Sebastian took one look at the kitchen, which Fenris had tried to clean but made little actual progress on, then sighed, took off his armour, and rolled up his sleeves. "We'll need to clean this place _properly_ , first," he said sternly, and after poking around for cleaning supplies sent Fenris off to the market again, to get scrubbing brushes that weren't half-bald from missing bristles, a mop whose head wasn't long-rotted rags, and a broom that wasn't worn down to a nub, along with a goodly supply of harsh lye soap. They spent the next four hours cleaning, well into the afternoon, before Sebastian judged the place clean enough to actually prepare food in, and laid a fire in the newly-swept hearth.

They ate a late and hasty lunch of bread and cheese, then with Sebastian's help, Fenris baked a cake. It came out of the oven lopsided and a little dark on one side, but it smelled good, rich with eggs and butters and spices, and they made a frosting for it out of white sugar from the far north, ground to fine dust in the mortar and mixed with a creamy, soft white cheese.

He put his armour and sword back on for the trip down to the Hanged Man, knowing that he'd be a fool to walk around unarmed in the lower city, especially coming home later at night. He carried the cake carefully in a basket, while Sebastian walked along with an armload of dusty bottles from the cellars under the mansion.

Their arrival in Varric's suite for the weekly card night caused raised eyebrows, first at the sight of the wine, and then at the neatly-frosted cake, when Fenris lifted it out of the basket and set it down before him on the table.

"What's the occasion?" Varric asked, from where he was leaning back in his chair at one end of the long table.

Fenris bent his head, biting on his lip, and turned the plate slightly. "I... have something to celebrate," he said, softly, then glanced around the table. Sebastian had uncorked a pair of the bottles, and sent them off around it in different directions, everyone busily filling their cups with the deep red wine. He waited until they had finished, until one of the bottles had come back around to him, and he filled his own glass, then lifted it.

He looked around the room, meeting everyone's eyes in turn, then spoke. "My mother named me Leto when I was born. I do not recall her, or the life I led as Leto, or my sister Varania, save for a single brief meeting that many of you were witness to just over a week ago," he said, and felt a brief pang of – regret? Guilt? _Something_ over having so easily killed the woman, anyway. "Whoever Leto was, he died when Danarius made me. I was reborn as _Fenris_ , his creation. He shaped me into what he wished me to be, until I slipped from his hand. And even then, his existence shaped mine; determined what actions I took. What decisions I made."

He frowned down into his glass for a minute. "I feel that with Danarius' death, I have been reborn yet again. And I would ask you all to celebrate with me today; a Name Day celebration," he said, and looked up again, once again scanning the room. He swallowed, then drew a deep breath, and spoke loudly and firmly. "I am _Fenris_ , but what that name means from this point forward is what _I_ make of it, not he."

Hawke grinned, widely. Isabela looked thoughtful, and then pleased. Merrill looked puzzled at first, and then she smiled sweetly, and her eyes filled with tears. Aveline's face maintained its usual impassive mask, but she nodded to him, just slightly. Anders nodded thoughtfully – another man who knew about rebirths, Fenris found himself thinking. Sebastian had a peaceful smile on his face, and was the first to raise his glass high. Varric nodded slowly, and then rose to his feet, lifting his as well. "Happy Name Day, Fenris," he said.

They all echoed the toast, standing and lifting their glasses, and drank the rich red wine. Fenris smiled, and motioned Sebastian to start a second round of bottles around the table, while he cut and served the cake. His first Name Day party... he looked forward to celebrating it again the next year, hopefully right here, with all of them gathered together, the friends and companions he had earned for himself, separate from any desire of Danarius'.


	26. Ask Box Ficlets 18

**Fenris/F!Hawke, first time Fenris says "I love you"**

There were words that had meaning to Fenris, and ones that didn't.

"Friend" was something he had learned to have, learned to _be_ , since meeting Hawke and her other companions. Varric was a friend, as was Isabela. And Sebastian, a much more recent addition to the circle of those he thought of as _friends_ , yet already as close as anyone short of Hawke herself.

"Family" was something that meant little to him, having no memory of his own as he did. He had seen other people's families, and sometimes envied them, when there was closeness and camaraderie, and sometimes been relieved he didn't have one, when there was not. Hawke's close relationship with her mother was enviable; Varric's betrayal by his brother not so much. And yet he still wondered about what family he might have had, in that time he could not remember; what his parents had been like, if he'd even known them – not all slaves did. If he'd had any siblings. He feared he would never know. Sometimes, after witnessing an especially bad argument between Hawke and Carver, he was almost thankful that he didn't.

There were words Fenris wanted to say, but wasn't sure how.

Words that overwhelmed him with the depth of their meaning; words he was frightened to say, since they revealed how precious something – someone – had become to him. If there was one lesson he had had ground into him over and over again by Danarius, it was that showing that something was special to you meant having it used against you, or taken away, sometimes even destroyed.

There were words Hawke said to him that he never returned; not aloud, anyway. But when she said them, it always moved him, and he tried to say back to her with eyes and lips and touch the words he could not bring himself to say with voice.

In time he learned he'd had a family. A mother, a sister. Had hope, briefly, and then had all hope dashed, tasting the bitterness of a betrayal he'd more than half-expected, having little faith in anything with its roots in Tevinter.

Hawke came to him, afterwards, at his home. Truly his now, he supposed, what with Danarius being dead and no longer able to reclaim it. Nor reclaim him.

She said the words again, later that night. He froze when she did, then lowered his head to rest on her shoulder. He swallowed, every muscle tense, then took his courage in hand, and for the first time, said them back.

* * *

**Sten, Warden, Zevran – Masquerade**

Even in costume, it was easy to tell at a glance who each of them was. The warden, short and curvacious, her well-known tattoos hidden by a lovely mask, a delicate oval of silver filigree, her dark eyes and lush red lips the only readily visible parts of her face. Her dress was a deep midnight blue edged in a froth of fine white lace.

The qunari was just as recognizable, at the opposite end of the scale, the set of over-sized templar armour he was wearing – complete with bucket-helm, though that was currently tucked under one arm – doing little to hide just who he was. At the moment he was eyeing the third member of their party, a puzzled expression on his face. "I do not understand why you are dressed like that," he finally said.

Zevran smiled, widely, white teeth gleaming between dark-painted lips. He shook back his long blond hair – not braided for once, but instead falling in loose lustrous waves around bared golden-skinned shoulders – and laughed softly. "Why _not_ dress like this?" he asked, and lifted the heavy green velvet skirt in one hand, turning a few mincing steps, moving gracefully,lithely, for all that his waist was drawn in by tight corsetry and his height augmented by tall heels on the high-buttoned ankle boots he was wearing.

The warden sighed enviously, watching him move. "I just wish _I_ looked that good," she said, earning a soft laugh and a willowy bow of acknowledgement of the compliment from the elf.

"It takes practise," the assassin confided. "If we had more time, I could teach you how to move like this."

"And you have practised this... this _mummery_..." Sten said, frown deepening.

"Of course. As part of my training," Zevran said complacently. "But come, we shall be late for Alistair's party," he pointed out. It was not until they were downstairs, approaching the throne room doors, that he spoke again, thoughtfully. "I am rather looking forward to Alistair's expression once he figures out who I am. I wonder if I can get him to dance with me first. Or better yet, afterwards."

That won a peal of loud laughter from the warden, and a very slight smile from Sten.

* * *

**M!Hawke, Tevinter!Feynriel, meeting in dreams**

He had always been on the periphery of Hawke's dreams. Well, not _always_ , but for many years, starting as a small boy, a pale skinny shape that didn't belong in the nightmare Hawke was having, of the flight from Lothering and Bethany's death. He had looked up from the dream of the memory of his mother crouched over Bethany's lifeless form, and the boy had been there, pale gold eyes large and frightened. And then he was gone again, seeming to be at the time no more than another random senseless fragment of dream, half-remembered on waking and soon fading.

Yet he persisted; showed up in dream after dream. And he _changed_ , ageing slowly, the fright in pale gold eyes some times more, some times less, but always there.

When he finally met the boy in real life, in the waking world, it seemed... fated. He saved him, of course, not once, but twice, there being little else he could do. Not when the boy – eventually a young man – still showed up in his dreams at odd moments. Sometimes embarrassing ones, though Feynriel – the name he'd learned was attached to that pale gold form, those pale gold eyes – never seemed disturbed by the content of Hawke's dreams. Perhaps because he'd seen worse, already, in the heads of other people.

"Why do you still come?" he asked once, years later, looking up from a nightmare of his mother's death to see the young man standing there, watching him quietly. "Why do you watch me?"

The faintest of creases appeared between white-blond eyebrows. "Does it bother you that I do?" the man asked. No fear in those eyes now; not for some time.

"I suppose it doesn't," Hawke said, softly. He looked down at the body; not Leandra's anymore, but Anders, sprawled on his stomach on the cold stone pavement, blood leaking from a gash in his back. " _That_ never happened," he said, frowning. "I told him to leave."

"You thought of doing it," Feynriel said, quietly. "Dreams don't differentiate between thought and actual deed."

"Yes," he said, and looked up curiously. "How do you know?"

Feynriel shrugged, then sat down on the floor. No longer cold stone, but worn wooden boards and a rug, a rectangle braided of rags, the work of Leandra's hands, that had been on the floor of their house in Lothering. Which this was now, and the body had become a very young mabari, asleep, oversized head resting on outstretched paws.

" _Why_ do you watch me," Hawke asked again, quietly. "All these years..."

And Feynriel shrugged again, smiled slightly. "You draw me in. I don't know why. Or how." He paused, and chewed on his lip, then looked up, met Hawke's eyes. "Perhaps it is just that you accept my being here. You _see_ me, where others usually don't, but you don't... deny me. Ignore me. Forget me."

"And that's important? Being seen? Being acknowledged?"

"Yes," Feynriel said, and rose to his knees, then edged closer to Hawke. The mabari on the floor between them rose and walked away, vanishing. A pale gold hand reached out, fingertips touched lightly against his cheek. "Being seen is important," the young man agreed, breathlessly, and leaned slowly forward. Lips ghosted against Hawke's. His eyes closed for a moment. When they opened he was alone again, in the Lothering house. It was quiet, except for the crackling of a remembered fire in the hearth, and his own breathing.

"Well," he said, softly, surprised. And smiled.

* * *

**Bethany/Anders, eloping**

"Your brother is going to kill me," Anders hissed, as he helped Bethany out of the window.

"He has to catch us first," Bethany said, an amused smile on her face.

Hawke waited until they'd reached the solid ground at the foot of the ladder before pointedly clearing his throat and stepping out of the shadows.

"Oops," Bethany said. And laughed.

* * *

**Elsa - anything about her**

"That's enough for today, Elsa," Meredith said, voice unusually gentle. "You may go."

Elsa made no response, other then to clean and set down her quill, carefully cork the ink bottle, and put the papers she'd been copying out safely away in a desk drawer, locking it with a small key kept on a chain around her neck, before rising to her feet and leaving.

Meredith watched her go, lips pressed together in a thin line.

On rare occasion, when especially angry, she could be drawn into speaking of her sister Amelia. An apostate and, eventually, an abomination, who'd brought terrible death to an entire village of people. Friends, family, the random strangers staying at the inn, they'd all died at the hands of the _thing_ that had once been her sister. Meredith had been the only survivor. Or so it was said.

She never spoke of her brother, who had been elsewhere that terrible, terrifying day. Never spoke _to_ him, either, not until he'd shown up one day at the Gallows, a grim look on his face, a young girl at his side. She had the family looks – blond haired, blue-eyed, pale skinned – and carried a bundle under one arm. The grim look on his face had told her all she really needed to know, even before he released the girl's hand, and pushed her toward Meridith.

"This'un your aunt Meredith," he told the girl. "You're _her_ problem now." And turned, and left, without any other word to either of them.

She'd done what little she could for her niece. Elsa, at least, would never be a second Amelia.

* * *

**Flemeth/Fenris, Chained to the past**

The young elf crouched in the dirt, folded arms resting on his knees, and watched the ants carrying bits of cut leaf down into their anthill. So rapt was he that he didn't even realize anyone was near until a shadow fell over him. Startled, he turned so fast that he lost his balance, falling over backwards, landing splayed out on the dusty ground.

A woman, tall and white-haired and human. Not dressed as poorly as a slave, nor as finely as a magister, yet her bearing was not that of a freeman or servant either.

"You are Leto?" she asked, voice cold and distant.

"Y-yes mistress," he stuttered, scrambling into the crouched bow that was appropriate to a woman of high status – far, far better to offer someone more respect than they were due, than to give less. A lesson learned at an early age.

"Stand up," she ordered him. "Let me see you."

He wondered who she was as he hurriedly rose to his feet. Someone looking to buy him from his master, perhaps? He adopted the suitable posture for a slave being examined – head lowered just slightly, eyes unfocused on the ground before him, feet a shoulder's width apart, hands clasped together behind his back.

The woman made a short, soft exhalation of breath through her nose, not quite a snort, and began to walk slowly around him. "How old are you, Leto?" she asked, as she moved out of sight to his left.

"Twelve, mistress."

"Well-grown for twelve," she said approvingly. He felt her fingers touch his hair, and shivered slightly. "So young. Tell me, Leto, do you know how to fight?"

"Fight, mistress? No... it is forbidden..."

"It won't be, for you," she said, as she came back around to the front. She stopped before him, and fingers touched his chin, lifted his face so that his eyes met hers. "You will learn to fight. You will learn to fight _well_. You will spend most of your life fighting for others, before you learn to fight for yourself."

"Mistress?" he said, uncertainly.

She smiled. "Or I might be wrong. Never mind... you won't remember this anyway. Neither now, nor afterwards."

He blinked, then looked down at the anthill near his feet. What had he...?

He thought of crouching back down, resuming watching the ants, then abruptly changed his mind. He'd go over to the guard barracks instead, he decided. There was a spot in the bushes where he could sit, hidden in the shade, and watch the men practising. A better way to spend his scant free time than watching the ants at their labour; he knew more than enough about hard work already.

* * *

**Bethany/Anders, first child**

Bethany swore, vile epithets such as he'd never heard from her lips before. Anders smiled slightly; he'd heard it all before, the things women would say during the pain of childbirth. Only rarely could any of them say something that actually shocked him, and knowing Bethany as well as he did, he doubted she'd be capable of it. Not when he'd survived her sister's markedly fouler mouth for so many years already.

"A pity he isn't here to hear you say that about him," he murmured, as he used a touch of healing energy to ease strained skin, preventing the tear that might otherwise occur. "It's crowning," he added, unnecessarily; she'd helped him in the clinic often enough to know what the different stages and states of delivery each involved. Doubtless she knew as well as he did just what was happening.

She swore again, at him this time, and he merely grinned and laughed softly, and then fell silent as he focused on the best part of being a healer, helping a new life slide out of the safety of its mother's body and out into the cold, cruel world.

"It's a boy," he told her, a few minutes later, looking over the baby after clearing its airway and wrapping it in a clean cloth. He cleaned its scrunched-up little face and set it on her chest, smiling at the look on Bethany's face. That never got old, either, that moment of wonder and joy. It lasted until after the afterbirth had been dealt with, the cord tied and cut.

She cried for a while, then, and he gave her what comfort he could.

"He looks nothing like his father," Bethany said, a while later, once her composure had returned, as she gave the boy his first feeding. Marian had joined them, and was watching closely, her expression almost envious.

"The eyes might, once the colour changes," Anders said, looking thoughtfully at the baby. "Half-elves generally take after their human parent in appearance, so he's more likely to look like you anyway."

"Are you going to name him after his father?" Marian asked suddenly, frowning.

Bethany wrinkled her nose. "I don't know. I'd have said yes, once, but..." she trailed off.

Marian nodded. No more needed to be said; not after the revelation of Orsino's involvement in their mother's death. Not after his final madness in the gallows.

"He's nothing like his father," Bethany said softly, and this time it sounded as much a wish as a statement.

* * *

**Nathaniel/Anora**

She stopped when she saw who was sitting in the window embrasure. For a moment, she considered turning and retreating back the way she'd come. But only for a very brief one. Then she raised her chin just slightly and continued forward, hands folded neatly in front of her. She didn't bother scuffing her slippers against the stone; he would hear her approach even if she tried walking silently, she knew.

"Anora," he said, calmly, not even turning away from studying the view outside the window to look at her.

"Nathaniel," she said, equally calmly. A silence fell. She waited; she had learned patience, in the long years since she had last seen him. And Nathaniel, it seemed, had learned to be more impetuous; it was he that broke the silence first.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking not at her, but down at his own hands, lying cupped in his lap. "I heard... the Warden-Commander told me..." he trailed off, and finally turned to look at her, his face stiff, his mouth a thin, unhappy line. "I would not have believed my father could be so foul," he said, very quietly.

"Nor I, of mine," she said, voice even, and snorted softly at the look of horrified surprise he gave her. "What, did you think my father had no idea of what yours was up to?" she asked, softly, and shook her head, then moved the two steps steps further to stand at the window, and looked out it. "He knew. He was willing to countenance almost anything, in the name of Ferelden's defence, no matter how foul."

"Even your... even my father _abducting_ you...?"

She shrugged, shallowly, an almost imperceptible movement of her shoulders. "That I don't know. I think... I want to believe... that it was entirely your father's idea. That, perhaps, he believed he could do away with my father, and forcibly marry me, and thereby take the throne himself. But I do not _know_ ," she said.

Another silence fell. Again he was the first one to break it. "I am still sorry," he said. "For many things."

"As am I," she whispered, then turned and looked at him. "How long are you here for? Might you dine with me tonight?"

He looked surprised, at that. "Are you sure...?"

"Why not? We were friends, once," she said. "And there are few enough of our age-mates left alive, whole and healthy. I will not discard your friendship just because of what your father did, and hope you feel the same."

He smiled, just slightly. "In that case, this Grey Warden would be honoured to dine with the Teryna of Gwaren," he said, and dipped her a shallow bow, as politely as he could manage while still seated. "Assuming the Warden-Commander does not object," he added.

She smiled warmly at him, then. "He better not. If he does, I will be most put out with him. I shall look forward to seeing you later," she said, and dipped a shallow bow his direction, then resumed her interrupted walk along the hallway.


	27. Ruffled Dress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written to accompany a sketch by a1879, of Anders wearing a ruffled organza wedding dress with a lengthy train.

  


The Fade never made any sense. It wasn't _supposed_ to make any sense; it was, after all, the realm of dreams. Dreams, and demons, and the ever-distant ruin of the Black City. Still, Anders wondered about the dress.

He was sometimes dressed oddly in his dreams, or not dressed at all, but he'd never even seen or heard of a dress like this one, with its layers upon layers of gauzy white ruffles, stretching out in a long train behind him as he walked. He could feel it snagging against the rough stone floor of the hallway, repeated little tugs. He found himself worrying that the thin fabric would catch and tear. He found himself missing his robes, a much more sensible outfit of good stout cloth and sturdy leather, with its moulting musty feather-covered mantle.

When he next glanced down at the dress, it was feathers. Not feathers like his mantle had, but long fluffy downy feathers, as white as the fabric had been, and twice as soft. It was like wearing a cloud, he thought, and watched in fascination the way the feathery ends shifted and swayed and floated as he moved.

When he raised his head and looked around at his surroundings again, he was no longer in the anonymous corridor he had been. He was in a room; a familiar room, Hawke's room, though as with all things in dreams it was warped, changed, from what true memory told him it should be. He froze, breath stopping in his throat, as he looked at the familiar furnishings. The bed they had shared, before...

"Your armour will not save you," a harsh voice said from nearby. He spun, found himself facing a demon; what kind, he could not tell. It wore someone's shape – someone vaguely familiar. Not anyone he particularly recognized, but whomever it was, the demon must have found the shape in his head. A patient in his clinic once, perhaps, or someone passed in the street.

"Armour?" he said, and looked down at the dress. No longer fabric, or feathers, but metal, thousands upon thousands of long gleaming pins. It gleamed and moved like some thick, exotic fur, silver-grey and dangerous, through where his bare arms brushed against it it did not harm him. It was heavy, as weighty as real armour, yet when he took another step it moved as lightly as the fabric and feathers had. He laughed, and looked up at the demon. "I don't _need_ armour to deal with you," he said, in Justice's voice, and saw the fright in the demon's eyes before it faded away.

He turned back to his inspection of the room then, feeling his throat close with unshed tears. _Hawke_.

Being scratched to death by a dress made of pins would have been less painful than the memories this room raised. He lifted the skirts of his dress – fabric again, the ruffles now made of yards upon yards of stained, filthy, blood-caked bandages – and crossed the room. He dropped to his knees beside the bed, and lowered his head, and wept for all things lost.

* * *

Note - The dress made of pins is inspired by this dress:

  
"Widow" by Susie MacMurray


	28. Ask Box Ficlets 19 - Duncan Fan Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Done during Duncan Fan Week on Tumblr. Week was almost over when I threw my box open though, and very few of the prompts were actually involving Duncan.

**Duncan and female Cousland, on the road to Ostagar**

She didn't speak for three days. Not a word, not even as much as a grunt or hiss or moan. Just silence, as she walked by his side, eyes staring sightlessly at some far horizon that he could not see. She ate, she walked, she kept herself and her weapons clean and neat, but she never looked at him, never spoke, never gave any sign – other than following in his footsteps, walking when he walked, stopping when he stopped – that she was even really aware that he was there.

He kept his own silence, though others, he supposed, would have talked, trying to reassure her, to comfort her, or to draw some reaction from her. Some acknowledgement of _presence_. But he allowed her the silence, knowing that either she would recover from this or that she would not, and feeling that there was little he could do or say either way to change things. So he walked, he cooked their simple meals and whatever camp chores were necessary, and he waited.

Late afternoon of the third day, as they crossed a wide meadow on the gently rolling hills at the edge of the Bannorn, overlooking Lake Calenhad, she stopped walking. He stopped, and turned to look at her. Her eyes were widening, hands slowly curling into fists, her breath gone suddenly uneven, laboured. She was shaking, a bone-deep spasmodic tremor.

"Elissa?" he said quietly, the first word he'd spoken in days himself.

She screamed. A shrill, throat-tearing sound, more of rage than of grief. Not once, but over and over again, falling to her knees in the road, fisted hands pounding against her thighs, then against the ground around her, with bruising force. He stood frozen, watching worriedly, as her angry screams changed, to a keening sound, a wail of grief, as she curled in on herself.

He moved, then, lowering himself carefully to one knee beside her. He hesitated before finally touching her, bringing his hand to rest on her shoulder. She _lunged_ , twisting herself around and sideways, throwing herself against him. Almost enough to knock him over, but he braced himself in time.

She cried then, clinging on to him and weeping bitterly, heart-brokenly. He knelt there, in the dust of the road, and gave her what little comfort he could, which consisted mostly of just holding on and letting her cry herself out.

He didn't know how long it was before she finally quieted, going limp in his arms.

"They're dead," she said, voice flat and empty, raw from her screams, thick from her tears. "All of them."

"Yes," he said, quietly.

She stayed silent a while, face still buried against his shoulder, then, "I'll kill him," she said, voice still empty. And pushed herself back from him, to kneel upright. She looked at his face for a moment, then looked away, up at the sky, face still and composed, eyes dark with memory. She sniffled loudly, then picked up the corner of her cloak, giving it a fastidious shake to clean it of the dust of the road before using it to carefully wipe her face clean. She moved with all the grace and calm demeanour one might expect of Eleanor Cousland's daughter.

He rose to his feet, and offered her his hand. She glanced at it, then rose to her feet without his help. She scraped her hair back from her face, twisting the curly mass of it into a knot at the back of her neck, and stood there a moment, drawing in a single very long breath. "Ostagar," she said quietly, hands dropping back down to her side.

"Yes," he said, and resumed walking.

She fell into step beside him, _there_ now, aware and looking around at their surroundings. "I _will_ kill him," she said quietly after a while, hand moving to touch the hilt of her dagger. An oath, to herself, to her dead.

He said nothing to that, merely continued walking. He had heard such oaths before.

Sometimes, they were even fulfilled.

For now, he was merely relieved that it gave her something to live for.

* * *

**Alistair and Zevran rivalry, specifically over F!Mahariel**

Alistair scowled at the elf. He just didn't trust him, especially around _her_. He was too... too... too _flirty_. And an admitted assassin. And _dangerous_. And he knew far too much about subjects that Alistair knew he himself didn't know enough about.

Zevran was amused by the warrior's obvious attempts at interference. It made him try all the harder to attract the lovely elf's attention. Something he would have done in any case – she was, after all, both very beautiful _and_ very dangerous, things he was attracted to in a potential partner – but Alistair's reactions to his flattery of her were often even more entertaining than hers. He could tell the man had little knowledge of how to attract the fairer sex, and his blushing reaction to even the merest suggestion of innuendo – especially innuendo centred on him instead of her – were oddly endearing. And he liked that he had an appreciative audience for his banter in the bard and the mage of the magnificent bosom.

The woman in question was amused by their rivalry. She had worried about it a little, at first, and had taken the step of cautioning Zevran about his behaviour; teasing of Alistair she would tolerate. Cruelty towards him, she would not. Rather to her surprise she _liked_ the big shem, liked his openness and the innocence he seemed to have somehow managed to preserve. An innocence she sometimes envied. And she liked the assassin, too. Liked his independent attitude and his joking and his easy friendliness with everyone; a skill she wished she herself was better at.

She kept it to herself that their rivalry over her was pointless; her heart had been given away to another long ago. She did not think she would love again; not even if she chanced to live the long years that the Dalish had once known as a matter of course. Whatever had happened to Tamlen, wherever he had gone, he held her heart still.

* * *

**Karl, Duncan. The most attractive beard in the history of ever!**

He couldn't sleep. He had tried, but nightmares had promptly seized him; twisted memories of the battle the day before. Genevieve's final moments, in particular... he shuddered, and rose from his bed. He couldn't just lie there; that invited the too-recent memories to haunt him even more strongly. No. He would, he decided, take a walk. He quickly drew on his well-worn leathers, sighing in quiet relief as he did up the familiar buckles and ties. He fastened on the final belt, smiling slightly at the familiar weight of the paired silverite daggers, the smile changing to a frown as he remembered their absence and later recovery. He stood a moment, hands absently caressing the handles of them, then turned and left the room.

This part of the tower was dimly lit and silent, though he knew elsewhere the templars would be walking their patrols in the more brightly lit main corridors, especially anywhere the mages were. Teryn Loghain's men were patrolling the tower as well, the Teryn being unwilling to trust the King's safety to mere _templars_ , especially ones whose loyalty was to the Orlesian-based chantry, not to any local power. Most especially given recent events here in the tower. Still, it was easy enough for Duncan to avoid the patrollers, and work his way further down in the tower. He wished he could go outside, but the tower was locked up tight at night, the doors heavily guarded. He settled on making his way to one of the larger rooms, the library, where at least he'd have room to pace and was unlikely to be disturbed.

He spent some time just wandering silently up and down the rows of bookshelves, sometimes stopping to look at the books, to reach out and lightly touch their spines. He'd never seen so many books all in one place before; he couldn't even begin to calculate their collective value. He could read – barely – the titles written on some of them, but others were in scripts that were too ornate for him to puzzle out, some so strangely shaped he was sure they must be other languages – Dalish, perhaps, or Arcanum, the tongue of the Tevinter Empire.

It was only when he turned into a wider aisle, one with a lengthy table piled with books occupying much of the space between the shelves, that he realized he was not there alone after all. A man stood beside the table – a mage, judging by his robes – studying a book held open in his hands. He looked up at Duncan, unperturbed by his sudden appearance. "Hello. May I help you?" he asked calmly.

Duncan hesitated before answering, quickly studying the other man. Tall and thin, his back straight and shoulders unbent – his carriage was almost regal, so self-assured did he seem. His hair was evenly barbered, the glossy brown beard that decorated his chin neatly shaped, making Duncan feel all the more aware of his own shaggy, unkempt appearance after weeks in the Deep Roads, hair untrimmed and loose about his shoulders, a thick growth of whiskers covering his lower face that he had not yet had time to shave off since his return.

"Sorry, I didn't think anyone was here... I was just stretching my legs," he said after a moment.

The mage raised an eyebrow, running his eye rather pointedly over Duncan's dark leathers and matched daggers. To his surprise, Duncan found himself flushing slightly. "I'm not here to _steal_ anything," he said, a touch sharply.

The man smiled slightly. "I didn't think you were," he said, then tilted his head slightly to one side. "You're welcome to stay. I'm just taking advantage of the quiet to get some research done."

Duncan frowned. "I thought the mages were kept locked up in their rooms at night?"

The man shrugged. "Usually, yes. But there are ways to avoid the guards, if one is careful, as I'm sure you know."

That drew a soft laugh from Duncan. "Dangerous though, isn't it? If I get caught, the worst I likely face is a talking-to. While you face... what?"

He shrugged again. "Depends on who catches me. First Enchanter Remille is rather stri..." he broke off, and frowned. "Well, I suppose I don't have to worry about _him_ any more, at least."

"No, I suppose not," Duncan agreed, then on impulse dipped a shallow bow to the man. "Duncan. Grey Warden."

The man smiled, and returned the bow. "Karl Thekla. Enchanter."

The smile seemed to take years off his apparent age. Duncan was startled to realize the man was only a few years older then himself, if that – the beard made him seem much more imposing and mature, especially in combination with his upright stance. An effect he'd have to remember, he thought, reaching up to scratch at his own unshaven cheeks.

Maybe he'd keep it after all; he might look good in a beard.

* * *

**Fenris/F!Hawke, finding out their child is a mage**

"I suppose we should have expected it," she said quietly, watching her youngest daughter laughing as she waved an ice-coated flower around. "Both our sisters were mages, after all."

Fenris grunted. He, too, was watching their daughter, his expression inscrutable.

"Fenris?" she said, a little worriedly.

He turned and looked at her. "She's still our daughter," he said, face impassive. "This changes nothing."

And yet, she was coldly certain, it did.

* * *

**Anders teaching Fenris to read**

He pretended to dislike taking time out of his busy schedule to teach Fenris, but in truth it was an activity he enjoyed. It was one of the few times the elf was too busy snarling over something else – words, and the difficulty of reading them – that he was _not_ snapping at Anders instead. It was almost restful, lounging in a chair by the fire in Fenris' ruined mansion, hands wrapped around a thick clay mug of piping hot tea, legs swathed in a dusty old comforter to keep them warm It was certainly warmer than his clinic in Darktown; there was nothing down there to keep out the bitter winter winds, and even in the smaller, more easily enclosed rooms deeper in, the cold stone walls leached away whatever heat people could manage to coax out of whatever small fires they could manage. Fires that were sometimes more dangerous than the cold itself, between people managing to set things on fire and the smoke.

Not that Fenris' mansion was all that significantly more weather-proof than the Darktown tunnels were. Worse then them, actually, when it came to things like rain. But at least here most of the holes were in the ceiling, not the walls, so the wind whistled over them, not through them, and Fenris had real fireplaces and a seemingly endless supply of well-seasoned firewood in the form of room upon room of old wooden furniture.

Besides, he quite liked listening to Fenris' voice as the elf picked his way through the thicket of words like a nervous halla, with plenty of pauses and careful study, nervous glances around, and the occasional sudden rush. He was careful to never let the elf know that he enjoyed listening to his voice's deep rumbling timbre. Doubtless the warrior would decide he had some ulterior motive – which he did, just _not_ the one the elf was most likely to assume – and make a fuss, and his cozy afternoons all bundled up in the warm would vanish.

He did sometimes wonder why he, of all people, had ended up with the task. Hawke had said something – or had it been that prig Sebastian? – and Varric had immediately made it clear that _he_ didn't have time for it, nor did Aveline of course. Isabela was willing, but with her that ulterior motives thing had all too clearly come into play. Merrill... well, she was too involved in her own work, she said, to spend time helping Fenris with his letters. Fenris had seemed quite frankly relieved... given a choice between a blood mage and an abomination – which Anders _wasn't_ , no matter what the elf might believe – he'd apparently felt that the healer was the lesser of two evils.

Which was fine with Anders. At least as long as this blighted cold snap lasted!


	29. Ask Box Ficlets 20 - Anora Fan Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written during Anora Fan Week on Tumblr.

**Anora, Ser Cauthrien, the quiet before dawn**

She couldn't sleep, unsurprisingly. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw it again – the sweep of the gleaming sword. Her father's head going flying. The spray of blood. Yet it was not that which haunted her the most. It was the look of relief that momentarily crossed his face as he stood, proudly upright, waiting for the final blow to fall and _knowing_ it was coming.

She rose from her bed – little more than a pallet, only one thin cotton-wadding mattress making it any more luxurious than what the common soldiers used – and shrugged on a robe over top of her night clothes, then exited the tent and stood in front of it, hands clutching the robe closed, looking out over their encampment.

The camp was vast, but the forces of their foe were even larger, she knew. Yet seeing the sea of campfires spread out across the valley below was still subtly reassuring, knowing that each light represented another group of men, or dwarves, or elves, all gathered here together to try and stop the Blight, to kill the archdemon. They should reach Denerim later this very day; and then either all their efforts – or rather, those of the Grey Wardens – would pay off, or Ferelden might effectively cease to exist. She had little doubt that if they failed here, the forces of Orlais would sweep over her country, Grey Wardens and chevaliers both. And what Orlais had once re-taken would be unlikely to gain freedom again, with the Theirin line ended and the next-highest line – that of the Couslands – all but wiped out as well, and likely to end here if they failed. As would many other lines, the flower of Ferelden's nobility being gathered among this army.

She wrapped her robe more firmly around her, knotting its tie, and walked away from her tent, bare feet silent against the ground, avoiding twigs and dry leafs out of long-ingrained habit; her father had taught her how to do that. To move silently and gracefully, even through thick underbrush. Though she carried no bow tonight, was in search of no game. She stopped only when she'd reached the very top of the hill her tent was set on. From here she could see not just the army encampment to the west, but a view off to the northeast of Denerim itself. She drew in a hissing breath, even from here seeing the glow of firelight reflecting off the thick plumes of smoke that rose from her city.

Something moved nearby. She spun, hand reaching for the dagger concealed in one pocket of her robe.

"Queen Anora," a familiar voice said out of the darkness nearby. "Should you not be abed?"

She sighed in relief, and relaxed. "Ser Cauthrien," she said. "I might well ask the same."

Silence was the only answer. She could make her out now, standing in the shadows under the trees, just the faintest of outlines of armoured shape, pale oval of face, her eyes. "I could not sleep," she said. "I haven't really slept since the Landsmeet. Not for more than an hour or two at a time."

"The nightmares," Cauthrien said, quietly.

"You, too?" Anora asked.

"Yes." A long pause. "I stood aside, at the door, and let the wardens enter, when I might have tried to stop them."

"I know. The warden told me, later."

Another long silence. "I will leave the army if you wish it. I... betrayed my duty."

Anora laughed. A short, bitter sound, quickly ended. "No more than I betrayed him. He was my father. Yet I..." she broke off, turned away, looked off toward Denerim. " _That_ is our enemy, there. Afterwards – if there _is_ an afterwards – would be time for recriminations, if any are due."

She turned and looked at Cauthrien again. "My father often referred to you within my hearing as one of the finest soldiers it had ever been his privilege to know. He expected much of you." She turned away, looking back to the distant burning city again. "He loved Ferelden. He would have done anything – _anything_ – in his power to save it, no matter what the cost. It's our duty now not to fail him."

"Yes, my Queen," Ser Cauthrien answered, very quietly, and went down on one knee, touching clenched fist to chest. When she rose, she stepped to Anora's side, and they stood together silently, watching the distant city, waiting for the dawn.

* * *

**Fenris/F!Hawke, quiet night in**

He rarely relaxed around others. Even her. But there were rare times when he did.

Tonight was such a time. The house was almost perfectly silent, save for the purring of the fire bruning low in the fireplace, almost down to coals and little else. Everyone else in the house was long gone to bed. Even the mabari, asleep in the hallway outside the door, was quiet for once.

Fenris sighed and stretched, then wrapped his arms more firmly around Hawke where she lay quietly, stretched out between his legs and leaning back against him, her face turned to watch the fire. They were both nude, skin cooling from the bath they'd taken together after getting enjoyably sweaty in her bed. He leaned his head forward enough to nuzzle into her damp hair, smiling at the way the ends of it tickled his nose and chin. He pressed his lips against her scalp in a single soft kiss, and when he lowered his head again could tell by what little of her face he could see that she was smiling.

He wished, briefly, that it might always be like this, just the two of them, together somewhere safe and warm, with nothing that needed doing except to enjoy the moment.

* * *

**M!Hawke/Isabela, fireworks**

It was a time for celebration, with the Qunari threat finally ended. Hawke had insisted on being down at the docks to see them depart. Anders had protested. Hawke had insisted again, more loudly. Anders had thrown up his hands, swore a lot, and done some more healing on Hawke's rather thoroughly perforated abdomen, then insisted he be carried down in a litter, otherwise, he said, he would not be held responsible for what happened.

Hawke, of course, had got up out of the litter as soon as docks came in view, not wanting the Qunari to see him looking anything less than his finest.

He sat now, on a bollard at the end of the dock, his arm wrapped around Isabela's waist as they watched the ship depart. "I wonder why they wanted to leave on an evening tide," he said. "For that matter, isn't it rather late for the tide?"

Isabela smiled. "I know why. Watch closely, Hawke... you're going to get to witness something very few people ever see."

"What's that?" he asked curiously.

Fenris, standing silently nearby until then, finally spoke up. "They use gaatlock for more than just weapons," he said.

Hawke frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You'll see," Fenris said, smiling faintly.

"Look! It's starting!" Isabela suddenly exclaimed.

A bright light streaked upward from the ship, then with a thunderous crack exploded into an expanding globe of coloured sparks. For a moment, it seemed, all of Kirkwall fell silent, then gasped in near-unison. More lights streaked upward, sometimes several at a time, globes of different-coloured sparks blooming again and again in the darkening sky, some trailing more sparks as they fell, or exploding in turn after falling some little distance. The noise was deafening, reverberating as it did between the close stone walls of the channel. A thick black cloud of smoke hung in the air over the departing ship. Finally silence returned, the ship disappearing out the far end of the channel and into the open waters of the Waking Sea.

"That was..." Hawke broke off. Even he had no words adequate to respond to what they'd just witnessed.

He made no argument as the bearers brought the litter close, and helped him back into it for the long trip back up to Hightown. He closed his eyes, seeing the globes of light expanding again and again against the darkness of the sky. Isabela's hand closed around his as she stepped up to walk alongside the litter, and they returned to his mansion in silence.

* * *

**Something happy from Anora's childhood**

Anora took a careful step forward, making sure her buskin-wrapped foot came down on an a spot of soft mosses, not on twigs or dry leaves, or anything else that might make a noise. She paused, chewing a moment on her lower lip as she lifted her head to peer through the brush toward the clearing ahead. The deer were still there, browsing calmly.

As she watched, one raised its head, and looked around. She remained stock-still, until it lowered its head again, seemingly unconcerned. Another careful, silent step forward. Another. Another wait, chewing her lip and hoping the wind would not turn and bring her scent to them.

Finally she was close enough. She raised her bow slowly, making no sudden moves that might catch an eye, or incautiously brush again something and make any noise. The arrow was already nocked, from when she'd first caught sight of the browsing deer and begun her stalk. She sighted along it, drew back, held her breath... then released.

The bow made only the faintest of noises on release, the arrow barely a whisper as it shot through the air, but it was still enough to disturb the deer. But not fast enough; her arrow sunk true into the deer she'd been aiming for, the point passing through its near side and forward toward the opposite shoulder in a clean quartering away shot. It must have hit the heart; the deer managed only a few bounds before its legs splayed on landing and it toppled to the ground.

The rest of the deer were long gone by the time she'd run forward to where the deer lay. She drew the dagger from her belt, and quickly finished off the kill.

"Good work," her father's voice said from nearby. She jumped, startled, not having even realized he was close. Looking around, she saw him standing among the bushes at the edge of the clearing, his own bow slung across his back, not even strung. "We'll eat well off that," he said approvingly as he walked forward.

She smiled, warmed through by his approval.

"Do you need a hand cleaning it, or do you think you remember well enough what I've told you?" he asked.

She bit her lip, then decided false confidence was a trap to be avoided. "I may need help," she said.

He smiled, and that smile was even warmer than the first. "Good girl," he said, and crouched down to indicate where she needed to make the first cut.

* * *

**It was rare for Anora to receive letters of this sort**

It was rare for Anora to receive letters of this sort. In truth, at the moment it was rare for her to receive any letters at all, locked up in Fort Drakon as she had been for over a year now. The occasional formal little note from King Alistair, the thankfully even rarer treatise from Arl Eamon. She didn't mind Alistair's little notes – he was at least keeping her minimally informed of events in the kingdom at large, and in Gwaren in particular, but Arl Eamon's lengthy missives were of only two kinds, boring and irrelevant to her current condition, or anger-inducing diatribes about the supposed crimes of herself and her father.

At least she was being kept in reasonably civil quarters here in the fort, a pair of rooms high up in the tower, the larger one of which served as her sitting room, dining room, library and study, and the smaller of which was her bedroom and bathing chamber. There was a very small barred window in the outer wall of each, letting in some natural sunlight and the occasional breeze, at least on days fine enough for her to open the inner panes, made not of glass but in a much older style out of bits of thin horn set in carved wooden frames.

It was in the larger room that she was now, seated at her tiny desk with letter in hand, frowning over the cramped writing. _Not_ the hand of anyone she recognized; not even script, but block-printing, of a particularly unreadable style, with much blotting of the ink. She had to put the letter down for a moment, rubbing at her temples, then try again, before she finally began to make sense of it.

She blinked. And read the first paragraph again, then slowly smiled. A letter, from a woman in Gwaren, a cousin of hers on her mother's side. She could picture the woman now – an older woman, daughter of one of her mother's aunts, who'd married the headman of the small rural village near the city of Gwaren where she lived. She remembered visiting her, with her mother, and the warm pleasant smell of her house, the scents of country cooking and the yeasty smell of baking bread, and how she'd sat quietly on a stool in the kitchen while the two women talked, eating a thickly buttered slice of bread still warm from the oven.

With the woman in mind she could all but hear her voice as she re-read the letter. She was trying to write formally, at first, which explained the stilted feel to it, but quickly slipped into a more natural voice, chatting away about doings in and around her small town, with a few mentions of wider events in the Terynir of Gwaren. It closed with a wish that she'd be restored to her proper position as their Teryna soon, with a simple affection that brought tears to her eyes.

She wrote the woman back, thanking her for the letter, mentioning her memory of that long-ago visit. The letter itself she put carefully away, as a treasure to be taken out and re-read whenever she felt the need of a lift.

To her surprise there was another a few days later, from someone else; one of her maids, letting her know that they were keeping her room ready for her, and hoping she would return soon. "The regent the King appointed does a fair job, but you are our teryna," it finished. "We pray daily to the Maker that you will be restored to us."

More letters after that, one every few days. From one of the grooms, giving her news of her and her father's horses. From another more distant cousin, with more news of the day to day lives of her people. Others, too, from people she had known there, and from some she hadn't. All with news of home, and wishes for her return.

She was reading a response to her own letter from the first woman one day, town between laughter and tears over the anecdote about her mother that her cousin was repeating in the letter, when there came a knock at the door. She hastily put down the letter and stood, even as the door was rather unceremoniously opened, and King Alistair stepped in, closing the door behind him.

"Your Majesty," she said coolly, and gave him a polite bow.

"Teryna Anora," he said, and bowed in return, with surprising grace; he had not been so adept a year ago. Still, she supposed he'd like had much practise since taking the throne.

Her eyebrows rose at his use of her title. "Am I still Teryna of Gwaren, then?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, then looked around and walked forward, sitting down in one of the chairs. "Please, sit down," he said. She nodded and resumed her seat, and looked attentively at him.

He studied her face for a moment. "Let me be blunt," he said, and smiled suddenly. "Not that I'm usually anything else. As I'm sure you know, Arl Eamon was of the mind that I as the crown should attainder Gwaren for your father's treason."

Anora stiffened. "My father was many thing, but he was no traitor," she said coldly.

"No. I don't believe he was. Too much the patriot, if anything," Alistair said quietly, pulling on one earlobe thoughtfully for a moment, and frowned. "Arl Eamon feels you are a threat to my rule. That I should either marry you myself, or marry you off to someone trustworthy and put all power in Gwaren into your husband's hands rather than yours, or keep you locked up for the rest of your life." He looked up, and met her eyes. "I don't like his options. Especially after having visited Gwaren myself, and talking with some of your people there, and hearing how warmly they still speak of you and your father."

She glanced at her desk, startled. "The letters..." she said quietly.

"Yes," he said, and smiled slightly. "A few of your people had asked if they might write to you. I told them I thought it would be a good and kind thing for them to do so. You are much-loved in Gwaren, Anora."

She looked down at her hands, uncertain what to say.

"Anora," he said, after a moment's silence. "If you will swear your fealty to me, I will accept your word that you will not seek to become the focus of any rebellion, to try and regain the throne. I would prefer to restore you to your lands of Gwaren, in your own right."

She raised her head then, and studied his face. He was, she had heard, proving to be a good king; better than Cailan had been, anyway, she thought with a pang. She turned and looked toward her desk, at the letter lying open there, thought of the bundle of other letters she had received. The decision, in the end, was very easy.

"Yes," she said, turning back to him. "I believe I can so swear. Where would you have me do it? At the palace before gathered nobles?"

He smiled, and rose to his feet. "The number of witnesses makes no difference if the oath is not heartfelt," he said quietly. "I will accept it from you here and now, if you are truly willing, and you may leave at any time afterwards that you wish."

She nodded, then rose, and went down on one knee before him, lifting up her hands, feeling surprisingly shaky. His closed around hers, warm and dry, and he listened attentively as she spoke the oath of fealty, then pulled her to her feet, and smiled at her again, looking almost boyishly pleased with himself. He bowed to her, very deeply and formally. "Teryna Anora," he said.

She bowed back. "King Alistair," she said, then drew a deep breath. "And as my first act as Teryna of Gwaren, I must beg your indulgence, my king."

"Oh?" he asked, one eyebrow arching questioningly.

"Yes. The other nobles are less likely to question my reinstatement if you have me give you my oath in a more open ceremony. At least one of the Arls or Arlessas, several of the Banns, and someone from the chantry should be on hand. As binding as I myself feel my oath to be, they are more likely to trust an oath that is publicly given."

Alistair frowned slightly, then nodded slowly. "Good advice. I will take it, then. It will take a day or two to arrange," he said, then looked questioningly at her. "Would you like to borrow some of my guards until you can obtain ones of your own?"

Anora nodded. "That would be appreciated. It would be better to avoid any incidents," she said.

He nodded. "I will leave a pair here for you then. Leave whenever you are ready to. You are welcome to stay at the palace, if you would prefer not to stay in an inn."

"Thank you. I will think on it before making a decision."

He nodded, bowed again, and left.

She drew a deep breath, and looked around the room. What to take with her... a change or two of clothing, though she'd want new clothing as soon as she could manage it – all the outfits she'd had here having poor memories attached to them. Her journal. And the letters, of course... nothing else.

She drew a deep breath, drew herself upright, and went off to pack, already looking forward to her return to Gwaren. _Home_. Far more so than the palace had ever been.


	30. Ask Box Ficlets 21- Sebastian Fan Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written during Sebastian Fan Week on Tumblr

**Sebastian and Isabela: shared past and/or surprising friendship.**

"...this little brothel in Wycome, right on the waterfront, smelling of swamp water and tidal flats."

"No, really? I've been there," Isabela said, surprised.

Sebastian gave her a startled look. "You have?"

"Yes," she said, and smiled. "My husband took me there, my first voyage with him on the Siren's Call. There was a whore he wanted me to learn some tricks from... she did the most amazing things with her mouth, he said."

Sebastian looked shocked, eyes widening slightly. "Mistress Sally. The best mouth on the Minanter, they called her."

" _Yes_. You knew her?"

"I had her," he confessed, blushing deeply. "More than once. That was on the last time I'd run away from Starkhaven – made it all the way down the river, and was hoping to take ship to Antiva, if I remember correctly, before my father's men caught up with me again and dragged me back home. Maker, she was talented with her tongue."

Isabela grinned. "She taught me everything she knew," she told Sebastian proudly, and laughed at the expression on his face. "I enjoyed that place. We only visited the once, but we stayed a whole month. When I wasn't busy learning things from Mistress Sally and her ilk, I used to hang out in the bar and play cards."

Sebastian grinned back at her. "Same for me. It's where I learned to play Wicked Grace."

Isabela laughed. "It's where I learned to _cheat_ at Wicked Grace. There was this one card sharp, a greasy sort of fellow... had extravagantly long curly black hair, and he used the most appalling greasy scent on it..."

"Blackjack!" Sebastian exclaimed, face lighting. "Maker, I remember him. He took over half my purse before I realized he was cheating. I never could catch him at it. He had this rat-faced little side-kick that I think must have been his accomplice... a bare-foot little wharf rat that was always sitting beside him, but didn't always play."

"With a ragged brown bandana and wearing a long leather vest over a linen tunic and short leggings?" Isabela asked, startled.

"Yes! You remember him too?"

"Her," Isabela said, and smiled warmly at the man. "I could still bind myself flat as any boy then. But rat-faced? Unkind, Sebastian!"

* * *

**I really want to know about desire demon nipple tassels? Where do they go when you kill them? …think you can work Sebastian into an explanation?**

Sebastian leaned heavily on his bow, the tip pressing into the rough floor. Not a good way to treat a fine bow, but as weary as he was at the moment – tired equally in mind and body, in _soul_ , after the defeat of Lady Harriman and the desire demon that had driven her – he could muster no will to care that the polished wood was being scored by the gravel and bone-chip covered floor of the cavern.

He could hear Hawke and her friends talking in hushed voices somewhere nearby, though he didn't listen to their words, being too caught up in his own misery. His entire family killed, and why? Ambition. _Ambition_ , fuelled by one woman's madness and the wiles of a desire demon, seeking a foothold in the real world. And for that his family was dead – father, mother, both brothers, their wives and children as well, assorted cousins and _their_ families... and all because one weak-willed mage had listened to the seductive whispers of a demon, playing on the woman's envy of her best friend's high marriage. For Lady Harriman and his mother _had_ been friends, from childhood through all their lives, until the desire demon Allure had latched onto the woman and twisted her minor envy of his mother's good fortune into a deep-seated dark jealousy of all that she had. A desire to possess it all for herself.

He drew and released a long deep breath. It was over, at least. Lady Harriman was no more; his family had been avenged, to what degree they could be. And yet... it eased nothing in him. Made nothing better. His family was still gone. His heart still ached that he had never come to any sort of reconciliation with them. He took a second deep breath, and turned away from his contemplation of Lady Harriman's corpse.

A glint in the gravel nearby caught his eye. He paused, and stared, then stooped down. A partial disk, almost moon-shaped, of some gold-coloured metal – not gold itself, he didn't think – the centre pierced by an opening slightly smaller than the tip of his littlest finger, with three pendant chains, a tear-shaped carnelian bead hanging at the end of each. He stared at it dumbly for a moment, thinking it familiar but unable to place where he had seen it before. And then, as he turned it in his hand, the pendant chains swinging free, he remembered, and flushed. A tassel, that had decorated the tip of the desire demon's breasts. He had never been sure if the jewellery of the demon was part of itself, or a separate thing. Jewellery and demon both had faded when it died, returning to the substance of the Fade, he supposed.

Yet this remained, this lost fragment, still seeming as solid as real matter.

He turned his hand slightly, watching the play of light across the golden metal, the glints of fracture planes deep in the red-orange beads, recalling the look of the thing against the demon's smooth violet skin. A shiver went down his back, the hairs at the back of his neck rising.

There had been a time when he'd known desire well; very well indeed. When he'd indulged his desires carelessly, recklessly, drinking wine and playing cards and having sex and indulging in other casual pleasures until he was surfeited with them, sick of it, like a boy gorged full on too many sweets. When he'd been sent off to the chantry he'd been angry at first, like that same boy throwing a tantrum when he found that candy was no longer forthcoming. Had he himself any magical powers, any presence in the Fade more than dreams, he might easily have fallen prey to a desire demon himself, in his selfish anger over thwarted desires. But he hadn't; he'd learned to master his desires, to control them, to deny them, to only give into them occasionally, after long intervals, and only the smaller, safe ones at that. A half-glass of wine, well-watered, where once he'd have knocked back an entire bottle of spirits. An occasional good meal at a fine inn, instead of gorging on rich cakes and well-cooked meats.

He turned his hand back, watching the play of light still, ran the pad of his thumb lightly around the upper curve of the metal. He would keep it, he abruptly decided. And if it did not melt away by tomorrow, he would fasten it to the upper arm of his bow, where he might see it regularly, and remember always that desires were dangerous. Even the desire for revenge; perhaps especially that.

* * *

**Sebastian/Rogue f!Hawke - Coming to terms with his decision (FINALLY!) to retake Starkhaven**

She loved him... didn't she? She'd been so sure of him, once. Of his goodness, of his quiet piety, which reminded her so oddly of her sister Bethany; they'd have liked each other, she'd often thought, if they'd ever had a chance to meet before Bethany had become a Grey Warden and left Kirkwall. _Mother_ had certainly liked him, for the brief time she'd known him before her own death, though that might just as well have been mother liking his looks and his potential title as her liking the man himself; you never could tell with mother.

She loved him, for all that the two of them almost never agreed on anything. And he cared for her too, she knew, despite their disagreements. There had been a strong attraction between them from the first time they'd ever met, an attraction that had not faded one whit in the three years that passed before he'd returned to Kirkwall, and suddenly had his life entangled with her and her companions. In the three years since then, their attraction had only grown; a meeting of minds and hearts, if not one of bodies.

And yet... and yet... she rubbed her fingertips together, remembering the feeling of the knife in her hand. In _her_ hand, as the blade sunk deep into Anders' back, piercing flesh as easily as a needle might pierce cloth. Another man she'd loved, at least a little, though it had never worked out between them – yet he'd still been her friend and companion, for years longer than Sebastian had ever been.

She saw again, in her mind's eye, the expression on Sebastian's face as the chantry exploded in angry red light. The anguish she'd seen there, as magic once again took from him his home, the people he loved. His anger, afterwards, as he demanded Anders' death. He'd insisted she kill Anders, right then and there. And in the anguish of the moment she'd seen no other choice; not after what Anders had done, how many he'd killed.

Anders had _welcomed_ his death. That chilled her most of all; how far gone in despair must he have travelled, and her never noticing?

When she's wished to save the mages afterwards, to side against the templars, she'd expected resistance from Sebastian... yet he'd agreed. Easily, and gracefully, speaking of how mages had suffered at the hands of templars, of how the actions of Anders should not be used to judge _all_ mages. And he had not balked during the subsequent fights, even when fighting against men and women that he doubtless knew.

He surprised her, constantly.

And yet now, watching him pack for his journey to Starkhaven, where he proposed to take back his father's throne, to rule as Prince, with her by his side once she was free to join him... she could not help but feel vaguely uneasy. And remember, always, that it had been _her_ hand on the knife, his own kept clean of Anders' blood.

* * *

**Young Sebastian interacting with his brothers**

Sebastian sat on the bench against the wall of the old barracks, warm in the sun as he watched his brothers at sword-play. Nicholas, the oldest, had a blunt-edged practise blade of real metal, and a battered old wooden shield, the faint markings of the Starkhaven Stag still faintly visible on its well-worn surface. Stephen, the second-born, had a heavy wooden practise sword, little better than a club for all the edge it had.

The older two pair looked like twins, people often said, both having their father's looks – dark-tanned skin and dark brown hair with dark blue eyes – and having been born less than a year apart. Sebastian hadn't been born until a full five years later, with his southern mother's paler skin, prone to freckling, with lighter red-brown hair. Only his eyes took after his father's side of the family, the same electrifying blue as his paternal grandfather.

He fidgeted, wishing that he, too, might have a sword, and practise its use. But he was still too young, the arms-master said, eight years old to his brothers' thirteen and fourteen, and not likely to allowed even a practise weapon for at least another two years, maybe longer. So he sat and watched, instead, and wished he was older, and more like his brothers, and more _liked_ by them as well.

Eventually they tired, and stopped, Nicholas lowering his overly-large shield to rest the bottom edge on the ground, sword upright against his shoulder, Stephen lowering the tip of his heavy two-handed weapon to the ground as well. They stood with heads bent close together, their backs to Sebastian, talking in hushed voices, their shoulders occasionally shaking with quiet laughter. Sebastian began to feel uneasy, especially when they started darting looks at him over their shoulders, a malicious edge creeping into their voices. He'd been the target of their pranks often enough to know the signs that another was forthcoming.

"Seb – come here," Nicholas peremptorily ordered him. "Hold up my shield. We need a practise dummy."

"Why didn't you just leave?" his grandfather asked him some time later, as he set and bound Sebastian's broken arm.

Sebastian frowned, blinking back tears now that the worst of the pain was past. "Because they do worse if I avoid them once they've decided to do something," he said, matter-of-factly. And then, after thinking about it a little longer, while his grandfather neatly tied off the bandage holding the splints in place, "I keep hoping maybe it'll make them like me more, if I do what they say."

Grandfather snorted softly. "Doesn't work, does it, boy?"

"No," he admitted.

"You need to find a better way to deal with people who mean you harm, Sebby-my-lad," Grandfather said, not unkindly. "Or you'll be getting hind teat the rest of your life."

Sebastian nodded. Grandfather was right, he knew. But grandfather was also not the sort to just tell him what to do; he'd have to figure it out himself.

Maybe if he just stayed away from them altogether. If he wasn't there where they could see him, maybe then they'd forget about him. As much as he wished they'd treat him like a brother, maybe, just maybe, it was better to be forgotten by them.

And maybe it would hurt less, if _he_ was the one that put the space between them, rather then letting _them_ do it.

* * *

**Anders, Anora...what are you doing here?**

Anora slipped out of the back door of the lodge, darting into the surrounding forest and disappearing among the trees and bushes. She felt slightly guilty about dodging her guards like that, but dammit, she _needed_ some time to herself, and neither of the guards Cailan had left her when he'd taken off back north – "trouble in the bannorn", he claimed – were any good at hunting. Trouble in the bannorn – oh yes, certainly that. Trouble in the form of a certain dark-haired buxom wench who'd been rather more flirtatious with the handsome young king at the Firstday celebrations earlier this year than was strictly decorous.

It was not Cailan's first affair. Nor was it likely to be his last. Cailan was much like his father Maric, her own father had once explained to her – unable to keep it in his pants when a pretty girl made it clear she'd welcome advances. He was at least normally discrete in his liaisons, though Anora was beginning to wonder if she might need to have a word with this current bit on the side of his. There were rumours already; the girl was not being as discrete as she could be, not having the wariness and awareness of place that the servants who were Cailan's usual targets of affection had as a matter of course. The little chit needed to remember that _Anora_ was Cailan's wife; he and she loved each other, at least as much as they could given their marriage had been more their fathers' choice than their own, and that their relationship growing up had been more that of siblings than of future lovers. But they _did_ care for each other deeply, and protected each other, and if that meant occasionally turning a blind eye to Cailan's little lapses... well, she'd do it, and _he_ well knew that no other wife was likely to tolerate such little misadventures on his part. Nor run Ferelden well enough without his constant guidance that he _could_ undertake such.

Still, that didn't make it hurt any less that he so frequently ignored her to chase off after other women. It was not like she could indulge in any similar freedom, even if she'd wanted to, which she never had. No. It was all right if the king fathered a few bastards – and given their continuing childlessness, there were those who'd even _welcome_ such evidence of his fertility, and the leverage it might give them to separate the Theirin king from his low-born Mac Tir allies – but the queen's child _must_ unquestioningly be the king's as well.

And so her own rebellions against the state of their marriage were always expressed in smaller ways. Things like today, slipping away on her own from the royal hunting lodge dressed in her well-worn hunting leathers and carrying her beloved bow, to hunt in solitude as she often had as a girl. Having time by herself to think and just _be_ herself, without duties, without having to pay attention to the needs of their people, or the desires of her husband. To once again be simple Anora Mac Tir of Gwaren, instead of Queen Anora Theirin of Ferelden, for at least a few precious hours.

She found a narrow game path and followed it, pausing occasionally to check for other signs of game. There should be deer about, she knew, as well as rabbits and pheasants and other lesser game. And while a brace of pheasant or a good fat waterfowl would be something nice to bring back from a day's hunt, it was deer she had her heart set on; shy and elusive, requiring skill to hunt successfully. Game that only nobles were allowed to hunt, forbidden to the commoners.

She found reasonably fresh tracks after a while, and followed them. The deer was joined by another. She passed droppings, and a place where the deer had browsed for a while in a small clearing. She guessed where they were headed from the direction of their travel; a larger clearing some way to the east, with a spring-fed pond that overflowed and meandered in a narrow stream a short distance downhill before disappearing in a boggy lowland between three hills. There was good feeding in the well-watered area.

She cut over an intervening hill, testing the breeze there on the height to make sure she approached the clearing from downwind. There were indeed deer there, she could see as she approached; more than just the pair she'd originally been following. A small herd, several does and their young, and a mature buck, feeding leisurely on the long grasses near the pond. She took her time, moving slowly and carefully to a position in the thick undergrowth around the edge of the clearing where she had a good view of the deer, sometimes standing motionless for minutes at a time when one of the deer would raise its head and scan the area for any sign of danger.

Finally she was in position, her chosen prey selected; a young buck, a yearling that hadn't yet been driven off to go join the bachelor herds. She carefully lifted her bow, and sighted, then froze motionless as the deer shifted uneasily, several of them raising their heads to look around. She thought for a moment that the wind must have shifted, carrying her scent to them, or that one of them must have noticed her motion... but they were looking upwind. And then one stamped its foot and they were all in motion, spinning away, tails lifting in brilliant white flashes against their red-brown hides as they leapt off into the bush.

She cursed, and lowered her bow.

The sound of something large and heavy crashing through the brush upwind of the clearing came clearly to her ears. A few seconds later a man pushed noisily through the bushes edging the far side of the clearing, almost falling as the bushes first resisted his passage and then gave way. He was tall and skinny, with strawberry-blond hair drawn back in a bedraggled tail, wearing a travel-stained robe. He had no pack, but instead carried a sack in one hand – a sack that looked suspiciously like a pillowcase, to her eye. A runaway from somewhere then; young, barely out of his teens, by the look of him. And by the robe... a mage. An apostate.

She should have left then, she knew, very quickly and quietly, and gone back to the lodge to inform the guards about the mage in the woods. She did return her arrow to her quiver, letting her hand drop to the well-sharpened dagger at her waist as she started to ease back further into the forest, then paused. There was nothing frightening about this man. Rather the reverse, if anything, his appearance bordering on the comical as it did. As she watched, he looked around, and spotted the pond. His face lit up, and he dropped his sack on the ground – narrowly missing a pile of droppings with it – and staggered across the clearing to drop to his knees beside the pond, scooping up handfuls of water and slurping noisily.

"You'll make yourself sick if you drink that fast," she observed, remembering something her father had once told her.

His reaction was as amusing as his entry to the clearing had been; he leapt up into the air, very like the deer had, landing on his feet and spinning around as he looked to see who had spoken. He didn't even spot her, not until she moved, easing quietly past the bushes and into the clearing, a move that made him flinch backwards in startlement when he finally did spot her. His heel caught on the uneven ground, and he almost fell over backwards into the pond, windmilling his arms to regain his balance. He relaxed slightly – though not by any means completely – when he saw she was young, alone, and female, even if armed.

" _Andraste's flaming...!_ " he exclaimed, then flushed. "Sorry, you startled me – I didn't even know anyone else was out here," he said.

She hid a smile, hard-put not to show her amusement as his clumsy antics.

He frowned. "What _are_ you doing out here?" he asked suspiciously.

"Hunting," she said, lifting the hand that still held her bow.

"Rabbits?" he asked interestedly. "I find snares work well for those, at least if I'm going to be in an area for a couple days."

"No, I was after deer, until you scared them away."

"Deer? That's _poaching_ ," he said, actually sounding shocked. "That's _illegal_ , you know."

"Aren't you an apostate?" she asked, eyebrows raising high.

"Err... what makes you think that?" he asked worriedly.

"The robes are rather a give-away," she pointed out dryly, nodding at his apparel.

"Oh. Right. Okay, _yes_ , I'm an apostate. But apart from that I stick within the law. As much as I can. Usually," he said, trailing off with a frown, then gave her a hopeful look. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to hunt up a rabbit for me? I make a mean burnt bunny on a stick."

She really did laugh then. Whatever else he was, the man was amusing. "Make a pit and get a fire going. I'll catch dinner. _And_ cook it – I can do rather better than _burnt bunny_."

"Maker, _thank you_ ," he said fervently. "I haven't eaten properly in three days."

She smiled, and shook her head in bemusement, then turned and left the clearing in a considerably better mood than she'd entered it.

* * *

**Anders, Karl, Sebastian. You would not dare!**

"Hawke. Thank you for coming," Anders said quietly as they met in the shadows near the chantry doors. "I haven't seen any sign of Karl – nor of templars. I don't know whether or not to take that as a good sign."

The mage looked even tireder than he had when Hawke had first met him in his Darktown clinic earlier that day, and he'd seemed on the verge of collapse then. Hawke wondered if he'd rested at all since then; she doubted it. He seemed the sort to push himself, even well beyond when most others would have given up, or broken down. "Was there any specific place inside you were to meet him? It's a big place," she pointed out.

"One of the side chapels," Anders said quietly. "Maker, I hope he made it safely... he claimed he could get out without my help.." He swayed a moment, then took a deep breath and drew himself upright. "Well, standing around out here doesn't accomplish anything," he pointed out, and turned toward the doors, taking a step forward.

Hawke followed, falling into step beside him as the mage walked over and tugged on one handle. The huge door opened with surprising ease and silence for something so massive; well-balanced, and well-oiled, she supposed. The four of them – Anders, Hawke, Fenris, and Carver – slipped silently into the chantry, pulling the door closed again behind them.

It was silent inside, a deep hush, the only sound the fluttering of candle flames disturbed by a brief gust of air through the opened door. Banners overhead stirred slightly in the same breeze, then stilled again. She'd never seen the place so quiet; not even a single petitioner there to pray, not even a single brother or sister of the chantry circulating to tend the slow-burning candles. But she'd never been in here this late at night before either; perhaps it was normal for it to be this quiet and empty.

She didn't trust the quietness. She lifted one hand, stilling the others, then edged a few steps forward, soft-shod feet silent on the polished stone tiles, and paused, tilting her head, listening. Her tension only increased as the silence continued. Too quiet. Far too quiet. She bit her lip, thinking retreat would be the safest option, but feeling certain it was also the one option Anders would most adamantly refuse to accept, now that they were here.

A whisper of sound to one side. She spun silently, staff in her hands and held threateningly out even before she saw the robed and hooded figure in an open doorway, the entry to the base of one of the paired bell-towers. The figure lifted both hands, one held open, palm outward toward her, the other moving to hold one finger upright before lips barely discernible in the deep shadow cast by the hood over – his? Yes, his – face, obscuring his features.

"That's not Karl," Anders muttered suspiciously.

"No, I am not Karl," the man agreed, voice low, barely aspirated. "But I can take you to him."

Hawke exchanged looks with her companions, then frowned at the man. "Who are you then? Is this a trap?"

"It was meant to be one," the man agreed. "If you go further into the chantry, there are templars in hiding. But Karl is not there. Come, quickly. _Please_."

Anders took a step forward. "I don't believe you. If you're from Karl... he would have told you a word to say, a phrase, so I'd know to trust you..."

"Well-whittled pegs," the man hissed. "Now _come_."

By the way Anders briefly froze, and then relaxed, Hawke divined that the odd phrase did indeed have some special meaning to the man. "All right," she whispered, and gestured her companions forward. " _Quickly_."

The hooded man was already turned away, moving swiftly and silently as he led them through the base of the tower, down a narrow stair into the vaulted undercroft of the chantry, through a maze of passages and rooms down there, then up again, and out through a garden in back of the chantry. She could see his shoulders – rather surprisingly broad ones, for a religious man – relax slightly in evident relief as they left the precincts of the chantry. A few minutes fast walk down narrow back-alleys brought them to the back door of a boarded-up building. He knocked on the door, softly, a rapid pattern.

She tensed again, knowing that if there was treachery in him having brought them here, it would show now... but nothing happened beyond the sound of a bar being removed, and the door opening on a dark room; not completely dark, there were a few faint speckles of light escaping from a well-shielded light. The group of them slipped inside, the hooded man moving to stand against the wall to one side. With a faint grating of metal on metal, the light was unshielded, revealing a tired-looking older man with greying hair.

" _Karl_ ," Anders exclaimed, and fairly flew across the few steps between him and the other man, throwing his arms around him in a tight hug that drew a brief laugh and an answering embrace from the man. "Maker, Karl – when your letters stopped, I feared the worst."

"It almost was the worst," Karl said, voice grim. "They were planning to use me as bait in a trap for you. I told them no, of course. They said if it took turning me tranquil first, to force my cooperation, they'd do it," he added, then nodded toward the hooded figure. "My young friend there got wind of it, and helped me escape."

The figure spoke, voice soft. "What they proposed to do was a great wrongness; against the laws of the chantry, which they are sworn to uphold."

"And is not helping a mage to flee the circle a crime as well?" Hawke asked, suspiciously.

The figure turned his head to look at her. Lips lifted in a brief, amused smile. "Yes. But in my opinion a lesser one. And I am no templar; it is different laws I am sworn to uphold. What is _right_ , first and foremost," he said, then turned to look at Karl. "I should go. If anyone realizes I am missing, suspicion may fall on me. And better I don't know where you go after this."

Karl nodded, and abandoned Anders' side for a moment to walk over and take the man's hands in his, clasping them warmly. "Yes. And thank you. I know how much you have risked in this."

The man nodded, once, then turned, slipping out the door and away.

"Who is he?" Anders asked, an edge of suspicion in his voice.

Karl gave him a quelling look. "A friend. That is all you need to know. Now, come, we should leave this place as quickly as possible. If he is caught, he will not lie, though he will do his best to mislead."

Anders snorted disdainfully. "Religious fools."

Karl frowned at him. "Do not tar all the chantry with the same brush, my dear – it is in just such a tone of voice I have heard the worst of the templars say _curséd mages_. And he saved my life. Or at least my mind, which is much the same thing, to my way of thinking."

"Can we discuss this somewhere else, perhaps?" Fenris asked, voice sharp. "As much as I hate to agree with any mage, staying here any longer than we absolutely must is foolish."

Hawke agreed. Karl was ready to leave; it needed only for him to snatch up a small bundle of belongings, and blow out the lantern, before they hurried out into the night, threading their way through the back alleys again as they took Karl away to a safer place.

* * *

**Fenris/Anders/Sebastian, AU – All are Wardens in Awakenings and Sebastian is still a wild child, Anders is his old self and Fenris is still learning to live as a free man (Well free being relative as a Warden)**

"No, you may _not_ have a room of your own," Nathaniel said sharply as he led his small patrol along the road toward the Amaranthine city gates. He once again wondered just what the Warden-Commander had been thinking of, assigning him this particular group. Oh, true, it sounded good in theory – a talented healer, an equally talented warrior, and two of the finest archers in the north of Ferelden – but that wasn't taking personalities into account. An authority-hating mage who'd flirt with anything that breathed, a mage-hating ex-slave from Tevinter who took severe exception to being touched, a privileged libertine, and himself, having to herd the three of them along and keep them from killing each other.

"But I'll willing to pay for it myself," Sebastian said, bright blue eyes wide and innocent-seeming.

His innocent look did not fool Nathaniel, however; he knew enough about the other archer's past to know the man hoped to indulge in an evening of carnal pleasure while they were in the city. "No," he repeated. "Our group sticks together. That means we sleep in the same room, we eat together, we stay together everywhere we go in the city. No wandering off to look at nice new robes or talk to women – or men – of questionable virtue, no walking apart from the others. Do you understand?" he asked, running his eyes pointedly from man to man to elf.

"No popping off to have dinner with our sister's family?" Anders asked brightly, earning a glare from Nathaniel.

"No, none of that either," he grated out. "We have a job. We will do it, and we will do it _together_."

He had a sneaking suspicion that the Warden-Commander had purposefully given him a difficult group; the woman had always been big on the concept of learning by doing. She'd probably think it funny – and fitting – to give Nathaniel a problem group for his first independent command. Not that he could entirely blame her. It wasn't like he and the other recruits had made things easy for her, either. He hid a smile, remembering his first visit to Amaranthine after his return, with her, Anders, and the dwarf, and how they'd ended up dragging her all over the city – and almost getting her killed – to take care of their own important business.

He'd have to have a word with her when they returned to the Keep. Possibly several words. Hopefully in the privacy of her quarters, with the door locked.


	31. Ask Box Ficlets 22 - Threesomes Fan Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mix of ficlets written for "Recreational Uses of Magic" and "Threesomes" fanweeks on Tumblr.

**Nanders/Bethany?**

He hadn't thought he'd ever see the mage again, not after the way in which he'd disappeared, the horrible circumstances surrounding his vanishing; dead templars and a dead Grey Warden, the bodies torn and mutilated, those that weren't burnt beyond recognition. There'd been no sign at all of Anders; no sign that he yet lived.

And then a year or two later, once the worst of the hurt had faded, __she__ came, the new recruit from Kirkwall, and one night at table he overheard the name _Anders_ drop from her lips. It had caught his attention, of course, even more so than she herself did, and her dark beauty certainly appealed to him. He'd assumed it must be a different man, possibly also from the Anderfels, it being a common appellation to use for such. But he listened more closely for a moment anyway, unable not to.

"...keeps his hair pulled back in a tail, his chin unshaven, and runs around in the shabbiest robe you've ever seen. With a feathered mantle over top that must weight a good ten pounds. And the __smell__... I don't think he manages to bathe even once a week, living down there in Darktown like he does. I'm still not sure just what my sister sees in him. Apart from him being an excellent healer, which I'll readily admit I'm not. And handsome, if you like them tall and skinny," she was saying to her dining companion.

He tried to convince himself it couldn't be Anders. Not the real Anders. Not __his__ Anders. But he managed to befriend the girl, and get her into conversation one day about Kirkwall, and... it __matched__. It all matched so well, what little she said about the man.

He kept up the friendship, wanting to hear more, to hear at least one little thing that would prove or disprove it to him. To __know__. And somehow... he didn't want her to know at first that his interest in her had an ulterior motive; that it wasn't really her he was interested in, but the apostate mage that she knew, who had saved her life at the cost of making her into a Grey Warden. It was that story, that she told him late one night, as they lay in bed together for the first time, his arms wrapped around her as they cuddled together afterwards, that finally convinced him. A Grey Warden, named Anders, who in every physical detail she'd ever chanced to mention matched the Anders he'd thought long dead.

It killed something inside him. If Anders was alive... why had he never sent word? A letter, or even just a hint, some clue that he'd survived and fled?

Or at least he thought it dead, until chance and circumstances and the passage of several years time brought him to a spot in the Deep Roads somewhere deep below Kirkwall, and face to face with the man he'd convinced himself he no longer loved. And knew, seeing the look that crossed Anders' face as he glanced guiltily at Bethany's sister behind her back, that he wasn't the only man who'd been living a lie the last few years.

"Hello, Anders," he said, voice cool and calm. And was glad Bethany wasn't there to witness the look that passed between them, and be hurt by it.

* * *

**Fenris/Anders/Sebastian – Electricity Trick**

Sebastian came to a stop just inside the door. He expected the elf to be there, of course, it was his house after all, his room in it. But he had not expected the mage. And certainly not the mage in the state he was currently in, stripped down to just his leggings and kneeling by Fenris' feet, head bowed, hands lax on his folded knees. Fenris was toying with his hair.

 _So that's how it is between them_ , was his first thought; he knew they'd been in a relationship for some time now, though both had been remarkably silent on the subject. But as close friends as he was with Fenris, there had been enough signs here and there to tip him off. A speaking look he'd seen them exchange one day. A stray bedraggled feather drifted under the bench near the fire, from no bird that frequented the shores of Kirkwall. The faint lingering smell of sex in the room when he visited, once.

"I should go," he said immediately, wondering if perhaps he'd mistaken the day. But no, surely this was the day on which he and the elven warrior habitually got together in the evening for drinks and conversation...

"Wait, please," Fenris said, rising to his feet, hand lifting away from the mage's head. "I have... there is something I wanted to ask you. To offer."

Sebastian hesitated. Curiosity won out. He stilled, and waited, studying Fenris' face, steadfastly ignoring the man still kneeling so submissively beside him.

"I know you have your vows," Fenris said, hesitantly. "And that, otherwise..."

Sebastian had to glance away then, from the look in the elf's eyes. What had long gone unsaid between them, that what tied them together was not just their friendship, but the unexplored attraction that underlay it. Were it not for his vows and Fenris' fears, they might have acted on it, long ago. But even once Fenris had overcome his fears, there had still been Sebastian's vows, and so they had never been more than very close friends. "Yes, there are my vows," he said, and looked again at the elf, eyes dropping briefly to the mage as well. "And I should not be here," he said, and started to turn away.

" _Sebastian_ ," Fenris said, the emotion in his voice so raw it stopped the man in his tracks, unable to continue his motion toward the door. " _Please_. I know you cannot touch me yourself. I will not ask that of you. But... how if it is not you that does the touching?"

He looked back, confused for a moment. "What?"

Fenris' hand moved to touch the mage's bowed head. "He can be your hands. Tell him what to do, and he will do it in your place. I know it is much to ask of you. And if you don't feel you can do it... if even _this_ would break your vows, or bend them too far..." He trailed off, standing still and silent, fingertips still just lightly touching Anders' bent head.

Sebastian stood equally still, unsure how to respond. His eyes dropped again to the mage, imagining him touching Fenris, his intermediary... imagined Fenris reacting to all the things he longed in his secret thoughts to do with him. He swallowed once, thickly. "Yes," he whispered, softly. "If the mage is sure he can do what I tell him, as I tell him..."

Anders lifted his head then, just far enough to meet Sebastian's eyes. "Whatever I am told to do, yes," he said, voice low and just the slightest bit husky. He lifted one hand just slightly from his leg, and smiled wryly, energy sparking between his fingertips for a moment. "Even this, if you want."

"No," said Sebastian, firmly, and lifted his own hand, fingers outspread. "For _my_ hands would do no such thing. And for this, you will be my hands," he agreed.

* * *

**Morrigan, Shale and Wynne**

The three of them had been left in camp today, the Warden having chosen to take along Oghren, Zevran, Sten, Leliana and his dog as he scouted the outskirts of the Brecilian Forest. It was a very hot day; the two women – three women, technically, Morrigan supposed, eyeing Shale's rocky, androgynous exterior – were just as happy to not be travelling around the humid stream-laced and bug-laden forest today. Or at least _she_ certainly was, and as tired as Wynne had looked the last few days, she was certain the old woman was pleased to be able to rest today as well. Shale... well, heat, humidity and bugs would certainly have no effect on her, but as much as it was possible to divine the golem's emotional state, she seemed quite cheerful today.

And apparently had something on her mind.

"I have been giving some thought to this matter of my being female," Shale suddenly said.

"In what sense?" Wynne asked, looking up from scraping carrots for the stew pot.

"I have no memories of it. I am... intrigued, by what it means to be female. The two of you and the sister are the only other females around that I can ask questions about it."

"Women," Wynne said. "The proper term is women, not females."

"Why? They both mean the same thing, do they not?"

"What she means is that _women_ is a politer way of phrasing it. Assuming, of course, that you care at all for being polite. 'Tis important to some people, but not to all," Morrigan interjected.

Wynne gave her a slightly amused look. "Yes. It's more polite. Anyway – getting back on tpoic – what questions did you have?"

"Well... everything, I suppose. I know nothing about being female. Nothing at all, except it means having a different shape, with different bulges, and the ability to on occasion make smaller copies of oneself."

That drew smiles from both Wynne and Morrigan. They spent the next half hour or so, while they peeled and chopped vegetables and added them to the pot, in telling Shale about it. Wynne did most of the talking, with Morrigan choosing to only speak up when she felt the older mage was dealing too lightly with some of the more annoying parts of being female, or being too round-a-bout and vague about things that Morrigan felt should be dealt with much more straightforwardly.

"Well," said Shale eventually. "The two of you have given me much to think about. This whole business of leaking blood even when not wounded – how disgustingly organic. It makes one glad that I am no longer able to perform such messy natural functions."

"They do have their compensations at times," Morrigan said thoughtfully.

"I hope you don't refer to the ability to bear children? It still sounds horribly inefficient. And the thought of another creature growing inside of me, like some parasite..." Shale gave a dramatic shudder, an affectation she'd seemingly picked up since joining their party.

"Pregnancy is rather enjoyable actually, or at least I found it so," Wynne said thoughtfully. "But I'm sure what Morrigan is referring to is what comes before that."

"Sex, you mean? I witnessed that more than once in the village. You wouldn't think a low grassy mound in the middle of the village would be where people would go when seeking privacy, but they did. Frequently."

Wynne laughed. "I'm afraid for some people the thought that they might get caught at it is half the fun of doing it in a more public venue. But yes, Morrigan does mean sex. It really is a lot more pleasant than a description of the act itself can convey."

"It certainly is," Morrigan agreed.

"Hrmm. Well, not being able to experience it myself, I suppose I'll have to take your word for it," Shale said, sounding dubious.

"I suppose you will," Morrigan agreed. "Though I can assure you that it is indeed very pleasurable when done with the right partner."

"Or partners," Wynne said, and then laughed at the startled expression on Morrigan's face. "I was young once too, you know. And adventurous! I wouldn't have ended up pregnant if I wasn't."

* * *

**Sten, Warden – One voice unheard**

He watched impassively as Alistair offered the Warden a rose. He saw the hesitant way she accepted it, the kiss on the cheek she give the warrior in thanks for it, and the way she gently turned him down when he pressed for more.

He remained silent as the assassin flirted with her, and witnessed her being repeatedly offered amusing conversation, massages, weapons training, and more. She turned it all down, except for the lessons in how to better use her daggers; a wise decision, he felt.

He saw the way the bard looked at her, the way she complimented the Warden's hair, and tried to draw her into talk of fine clothing and entertaining parties. The way the woman smiled at her, and told charming stories and sang, and the way the Warden kept her distance.

And then there was the way she scoured an entire country, following vague rumours, chasing down men and dwarves, until she returned to him a piece of his soul.

"Kadan," he said, as parsimonious with words now as he was in their nightly conversations. And he saw the way she smiled at the word, and was content.


	32. Ask Box Ficlets 23

**Alistair & Dog – Ferelden Blues**

He'd always got along well with dogs, when he was a child in Arl Eamon's castle. Perhaps it was because he smelled right to them; like all of the dog-boys, he'd slept in the kennel with his charges. Not mabari, of course, he was still too young to trusted with the care of those, just a pair of Eamon's hunting dogs, bred for speed on the flats to bring down rabbits, and the small antelope that sometimes frequented the grassy headlands overlooking the lake.

But then he'd been moved from the kennels to the stables, and then later off to the chantry, and dogs had stopped treating him like one of them. Maybe they just didn't like the harsh-scented lye soap that he had to wash with every morning in the dormitory he shared with the other students; most, like him, orphans, though they had all been raised in the chantry orphanages, while he at least remembered a home elsewhere, and had the Arl as a patron and infrequent visitor.

Perhaps it was just that Denerim street dogs were wary of _any_ stranger; they weren't like the well-cared-for dogs of the nobles. Some had owners, but many were feral dogs, mutts and curs, living on what they could beg, sniff out, or snatch from the unwary, more used to being shouted at and chased or having things thrown at them than petted and scratched. At least as a former dog-boy he could read their body language well enough not to ever get bit when trying to befriend them; he knew when to stay still, when to meet eyes, when to look away, when to slowly back off, not to run. He felt a certain amount of fellow-feeling for the scrawny rough-coated creatures; wasn't _he_ a mutt as well? But obviously the feeling was not returned.

He sometimes regretted that he'd turned down the opportunity to help heal the sick mabari at Ostagar, especially when it sought them out afterwards and made it clear that it had decided Kalli was now its person. She named the yellow-coated mabari Dandelion, of all thinks, an odd choice for a mabari, especially a male one. But then she was a city elf; it wasn't like she'd had much exposure to mabari. And Dandelion seemed to _like_ the name she'd given him, and refused to answer to any other, not even Barkspawn when Alistair suggested it as an improvement over naming a killing machine after a common weed.

Maybe someday, after the Blight had been dealt with, he'd have a chance to have a dog of his own. It didn't even have to be a mabari; any dog would do. Even a yappy little thing, as long as it would be his friend.

* * *

**Three Men and a Sponge Bath**

Waking up entangled with another man was... awkward. Especially when it was a man he didn't even really know, other than as the drunkard who usually occupied the corner table to the left of the stairs that led upstairs at the Hanged Man, seen in passing when he visited Varric's suite on card nights. More embarrassing was realizing that there was a third body in the bed, on the other side of him, and discovering when he turned his head that it was Anders whose pale arm was draped across his side, just above the substantially more muscular and tanned arm of the first man.

He flushed, partially in embarrassment and partially in anger, with no memory of how he'd come to be in a bed between the two men, though judging by his throbbing head quite a lot of strong drink had been involved. The flush darkened further when he moved slightly, and realized his head was not the only part of him that was sore.

The move, slight as it had been, was enough to wake the other two men; he wasn't sure if he was more relieved or annoyed that they each seemed just as embarrassed as he was. Anders yelped and recoiled so quickly – perhaps fearing Fenris' possible angry reaction – that he fell out of the bed onto the floor. The other man didn't flinch, but he did turn as red as a boiled lobster and untangled himself from first Fenris and then the bedding with noticeable haste.

They all tried to avoid looking at each other as they hastily sorted through the clothing scattered on the floor from the door to the bed, though even without direct looks – or worse, outright staring – Fenris couldn't help but notice the signs on their bodies that they'd had a very energetic night before sleeping. Scratches. Bite marks. Smears and dribbles and spatters of certain bodily fluids associated with arousal. Not to mention sweat; they stank, of sex and drink both.

Anders, having gathered up all the bits and pieces of his layered robes, looked around the room, grimacing. "I need a _bath_ ," he said, almost plaintively, as if hoping the words would make one materialize.

"We all do," the stranger agreed, also looking around as he dumped an armful of well-worn splintmail armour on the bed. "Ummm. All I see is... _that_ ," he said, nodding his head to a small washstand set in a narrow dormer under the one window the room had. It held a large ceramic basin, a pitcher of water, a sliver of soap, and had a small stack of folded clothes on a shelf underneath.

It was a very quiet and very quick sponge bath they all took, gathered around the basin, carefully avoiding each other's eyes as they quickly cleaned off the worse of the evidence of the night's activities. They dressed hastily, and departed silently, none of them needing to say that whatever had happened between them the night before, it was not something any of them wished to ever refer to again.

Fenris just hoped that none of their friends were aware of what had happened. The last thing he needed was Isabela teasing him. Or worse, Varric writing a book about it all.

* * *

**Templar Threesome with Three Templars of Your Choice**

Three heads, blond and dark and blond again. Three bodies, muscular and smelling of sweat, armour oil and male musk. Three mouths, three cocks, six hands, so much possibility...

Carver thrashed, panting for air, too breathless to keen as Cullen thrust into him again, driving him down, hard against Keran, their cocks rubbing together within the circle of his own hands. Their arms – thick as most men's thighs – were wrapped around him, holding him caged between them as they struggled together. He cried out again, overwhelmed with sensation as they heaved and thrust, moved and rubbed. Teeth nibbling along the top of his shoulder, a tongue licking up the column of his throat, rasping against the stubble along the edge of his jaw. A hand sliding across the plane of his chest, fingers closing in a teasing pinch around sensitive flesh. Lips closing around his lobe, teeth biting almost painfully hard, driving another strangled cry out of him. Hands, holding him tightly, sometimes hard enough to bruise, sometimes just running gently over his sweat-slicked flesh, caressing and soothing, sometimes tugging him into some slightly different position, drawing grunts and soft cries from him or from them.

Pleasure and pain, too much of both for him to think coherently any more, not to think about how he'd ended up here between the other two men, not to worry about what might happen afterwards, just this moment, this seemingly endless moment, with him pinned between the two and filled, overfilled, undone with pleasure.

* * *

**Anders/Isabela – On A Boat**

Anders stopped rowing, leaning forward with the oars lifted out of the water, panting for breath. "You could take a turn, you know," he said to the woman lounging on the pile of sacks near the back of the boat, gazing off into the heavy fog that surrounded them. He'd lost all sense of direction once the docks had vanished behind them, but she seemed to know exactly where they were.

"I don't _do_ rowing," she said. "It's murder on the hands if you're not used to it," she added, spreading hers out in front of her, the palms pale and soft, marked with only the faintest of weapon callouses from the daggers she wore slung at her back.

"So I've noticed," he said, a touch bitterly, and tucked the handles of the oars under his bent arms, peering at the blistered flesh of his own palms, hissing as he noticed that one blister had already burst and was weeping bloody serum. He concentrated, eyes half-closing, and a faint glow sprung up around his hands, the torn flesh closing, the liquid-filled sores flattening and healing, leaving his hands unmarked.

" _That's_ a nice trick," the woman said, raising to her knees and edging forward to watch. She took one of his hands in hers when he was done, examining it closely. "Almost as nice as that electricity trick of yours," she said approvingly, smiling at him in a way that brought back memories of a night at the Pearl in Denerim, not to mention causing a certain tightness in his robes, before she shifted back away and resumed her seat.

"And usually considerably more useful than it is," he pointed out dryly as he took the oars in hand again and resumed pulling. "How much further to this boat of yours, anyway?"

" _Ship_ , my dear. A boat is this little thing," Isabela said, tapping one painted fingernail against the rim of the dory. "We'll be there soon. Just keep pulling. A little more to port," she added. "That's left. _My_ left, not yours. Another ten or fifteen minutes and we should be close enough to signal them. And then Kirkwall is just a few days away. Though why you want to go there..."

"Business," he said sharply. "There's someone I need to see there."

"Whatever you say, sweetheart," she said, and shrugged, falling silent once again.

* * *

**Greagoir/Irving – To the last man standing**

Fear and despair and so, _so_ much anger. Years of careful stewardship, of making the hard choices when they had to be made, and all undone in a single night of horror and bloodshed. He couldn't believe he had missed the warning signs, that this had somehow taken place on _his_ watch, but it had. A blood mage coven, here in _his_ tower.

Bitter, the taste of it, the sour knowledge that he'd have to swallow his pride, his belief in how well-run his tower was, and send off for the right of annulment. Like lighting a backfire to stop a grass fire from overrunning your freehold, firing your own crops to save what little could be, might be, saved from the ashes after the fires had burnt out.

He'd not wanted to believe the faint hope that the Warden offered him; the slender chance that something, someone, might yet be saved before it was too late. Yet he'd acquiesced, desperate and _wanting_ to believe, praying to Andraste and the Maker that this Warden and his companions might succeed where he knew he and his own men could only fail if they made the attempt. He made only one condition, his desperate heart's wish; that he would only open the door to them if they saved Irving. The one steadfast friend he had in all this tower, the only mage whose word he knew he could trust absolutely, who would never give in to the blandishments of demons nor succumb to the pressures blood mages might bring to bear on him. He'd known in his heart of hearts that if they saved anyone, even just themselves, he'd let them back out, but still he set the condition; he could not live with himself if he didn't make at least that token effort to save his friend.

The minutes had dragged by like hours, the hours like days. He paced back and forth, unable to sit, unable to rest. A very long night, before there was a dull thudding on the locked door and Irving's voice on the other side of it, cracked and tired and so very welcome a sound. The relief he felt on seeing that Irving had survived – nothing he could give voice to then, just a single brief look exchanged with the mage, and then back to work for both of them.

There was so very much to do after that; ordering in his men to search for survivors, seeing the mages brought to safe quarters on the ground floor, ordering food made for them, healers supported with lyrium potions and templar assistants to care for the wounded, at least those whose injuries were of the flesh and could be healed so easily. The warden to talk to, and hear the story from of the cleansing of the tower from, how he and his group had tried so desperately to save all the mages that Uldred had in the harrowing chamber, and how that fight ended with Irving the last man standing apart from the warden and his companions, the others all forcibly made into abominations by Uldred, and slain. He saw the warden off after that, then there was a duty roster to be drawn up, word sent to Denerim, so very many things still to do in the wake of the disaster.

It was well after noon before he finally made his way up the tower, his head buzzing with exhaustion, movement flickering sometimes in the corners of his eyes that he sincerely hoped were only signs of his extreme tiredness, not any worse thing. He grimaced at the stench of the flesh-like growths that draped the floor and walls in places, sometimes lifting up in warty excrescences, swollen pods, or sprawling in tentacle-like fibres, all of its unnatural substance rotting away with almost visible speed into a foul black liquid.

He knew where he'd find Irving.

It was with relief that he entered Irving's office, a large room lined with bookshelves. It showed signs of disturbance, of a hasty search, but was thankfully free of the disgusting growths elsewhere in the tower. He walked on unsteady feet to the door tucked out of sight in a back corner, and knocked.

The door opened, and he stepped through into Irving's private quarters, and into the man's welcoming arms. Here, at last, he was safe enough to show the emotions that had gripped him since the outbreak had started; to cling to his friend, and to cry, over all whom had died, over all they had both lost in their failure, friends and charges alike.

* * *

**Zevran/Wynne – Beer**

"Pardon me, but I could not help overhearing your conversation with Oghren," Zevran said, after catching up on the trail with the elderly mage.

"Oh?" Wynne said, giving him a questioning look. "Which one? The one about personal cleanliness, or the one about beer?"

"Both, actually," Zevran said, grinning widely. "But it is the one about beer that piqued my interest."

"Oh?" Wynne asked again, one eyebrow arching upwards enquiringly. "How so?"

"Well, we will be in Denerim this evening, yes?"

"If we're not further delayed on the road, yes," Wynne agreed guardedly.

"And there are many fine drinking establishments there, as there are in most large cities, are there not?"

"Yes..." Wynne said slowly, drawing out the word, and frowned at the elf, looking slightly puzzled.

"Well, I was thinking... you seem to have a taste for fine ale, and this evening we will actually be in the vicinity of some. Perhaps, you and I..." he trailed off.

"Why, Zevran – are you asking me out?" Wynne asked, sounding more amused than anything else.

"Err... yes?" he said, looking hopeful.

Wynne snorted, and walked a few steps in silence, then licked her lips. "Perhaps," she said, then held up one hand, stopping Zevran before he could do much more than smile happily. "But _do not_ think that this means I have any interest in you outside of having you as a drinking companion! And if the words 'magnificent bosom' cross your lips at any time, perhaps I'll let you learn for yourself whether or not I can turn someone into a toad."

"Ah. Yes," Zevran said, and perhaps wisely kept silent after that, though there was a decided bounce in his step as they proceeded.

* * *

**Loghain/Anders – Freedom**

"...but don't you sometimes wish you could just, I don't know, pick up your stuff and just _go_?" Anders asked.

Loghain looked up from the bracer he was carefully dabbing polishing rouge onto. "Go where?" he asked.

"Anywhere. Everywhere. Away from here," Anders said, gesturing with one hand to take in the towering walls and towers of Vigil's Keep looming behind them, his other tucked possessively around the staff leaning against his side where he perched in an embrasure, watching Loghain.

Loghain snorted. "Escape my responsibilities, you mean?" he asked.

"Well... not quite what I meant. But, yes, sure – run away. Not be a Grey Warden, or a noble of Ferelden or general of the armies like you used to be, none of that. Just – yourself. Whatever yourself happens to be."

Loghain carefully put the lid back on the tin of rouge, and put it aside, then picked up a soft cloth and began buffing it gently over the metal, a thoughtful frown on his face. Anders – veteran of any number of conversations with the taciturn man now, since Loghain's return from Orlais, waited patiently, knowing that Loghain would either answer in his own time, or not at all.

"There has been a time or two in my life when I wished I could run away from my responsibilities, yes," Loghain finally agreed. "Even a time or two when I _did_ abandon my duty, for one reason or another, reasons that seemed good at the time." He paused, nostrils flaring as he took a deep breath, jaw setting firmly for a moment. "Responsibilities have a way of following you, no matter how much you seek to evade them. Duties delayed require far more effort to fill than ones done expeditiously. You will find that if you run, your past will have a way of catching up with you, often at the worst possible moment and in the worst possible ways. Far better to stand your ground than to chase after some ephemeral notion of freedom," he said, then looked curiously at the mage. "Why do you ask, anyway?"

"Oh. No particular reason," Anders said lightly, and looked away, off to the north.

* * *

**The Warden's Dog and Hawke's Dog**

Stench came to an abrupt stop, nose lifting to sniff the air. Right stopped, lifting one hand to signal the group of men following him to stop. Silence fell, broken only by the snuffling of the huge hound.

"What is it, boy?" Right asked quietly. He didn't need to look around to know that Zevran had moved closer, hands resting lightly on the hilts of his weapons. They were always cautious in patrolling the Blackmarsh; even after all these years, it was a chancy vicinity, haunted by smugglers, or the merely desperate, when not by any worse thing.

Stench moved a few steps, nose still working away, then suddenly his ears lifted, and his tail gave a single brief wave. The mabari started into movement again, almost bouncing in his walk. Right and Zevran exchanged a look, then followed the hound, the rest of their patrol bringing up the rear. The mabari led them along the trail, turning off of it shortly before the ruins of the village would have come into view, leading them along a narrow trail through the swamp. There'd been a bad storm just a day or two before; the swamp waters were high, only the tallest of grass tufts and the infrequent rocks or sand bars remaining above the surface of the sluggish waters.

Eventually Stench stopped, and barked, then stood still, ears lifted attentively, all but vibrating in his eagerness. A faint sound reached their ears; a distant bark. Stench bounded forward a few steps, then stopped, looking back at the wardens and whining before loping away again. Right sighed, took a firm grip on the straps of his backpack to prevent it from bouncing too much, and broke into a run, his face flushing in self-conscious embarrassment. Dwarves, he often told Zevran, were not really built for running. A stately walk or a a fast pace were more his speed. His run, he knew, looked comical.

Elves, on the other hand, definitely were built for running; Zevran passed him within a few strides, nimbly leaping from grass tuft to dry rock to grass tuft in the dog's wake. Right gritted his teeth for a moment, and increased his speed, managing to at least keep the elf and the bounding mabari in sight, reassured by the clanking sounds and the huffing and puffing behind him that his wardens were still following along.

A veritable storm of barking broke out somewhere ahead of them, and he rounded a line of scrubby bushes to emerge on a tiny crescent of sandy beach. Stench was there, bouncing around a second mabari, one almost as big as he was, and nearly as energetic, though it was confining its bounces to three legs, one forelimb tucked up close to its chest, the fur stained with blood both new and old.

Zevran was looking around attentively. He froze just as Right reached his side. "There," he said, gesturing toward a pile of wreckage at one end of the beach. A jumble of seaweed and shattered wood; the remains of a small sailboat, Right saw as they hurried over to it, the two mabari racing ahead of them to the wreckage.

The wounded mabari led the way around the pile, then stopped to nose at a fold of torn canvas. Bodies, Right thought at first, seeing the two people roped together to a broken beam. He knelt, gently shouldering aside the whining hound to touch stubby fingers to the pale throat of the dark-haired man. The skin was cool to the touch, but he felt a pulse there nonetheless; cold from a thorough soaking and exposure, yes, but not dead.

Zevran was checking the other figure. Right glanced that way, then froze. That face... "Anders," he said, barely louder than a breath. "Is he...?"

"He lives," Zevran assured him. "Though we had best get them into shelter and warmed up."

Right nodded, already rising to his feet, and began issuing orders to his men.

* * *

**Zevran/Leliana – During the Blight**

Zevran lifted a strand of red hair, and pressed it lightly to his lips, his eyes locked with hers. The look in her eyes was still guarded, untrusting. He allowed the slightest of smiles to show, then eased away from her, backing away to the far end of the tent. With deliberate care he began to disarm himself; the obvious weapons first, and then the many less obvious ones, piling them neatly off to one side.

She watched him for a while, then drew a deep breath, rose up on her knees, and began a similar disarmament, her pile of weapons soon matching the size of his. His eyebrows rose at some of her lethal little toys; she seemed equally impressed or unsettled by some of his. Only once they had both fallen still again did he move back toward her, stopping just out of her reach before settling back on his heels and lifting his hands to begin unbuckling his armour. She barely hesitated before moving closer, reaching to help him rather than undressing herself.

He did not mind. She would doubtless find it more reassuring to have him naked first, while she remained dressed. He was a Crow; how well-armed or well-armoured he was did not change how deadly he could be, if it was called for. And he did not believe it would be called for, even if he was still not entirely sure that he trusted the motives of the bard.

It was not anything involving trust they planned to do tonight, anyway. Nor affection. Simply a matter of physical enjoyment, of scratching a long-ignored itch. A mutual sharing of comfort, an acknowledgement that they might as well seek pleasure with each other, as it was by now quite clear that the warden preferred Alistair.

He let her take the lead, submissive to her wants; she seemed to prefer it that way, and he... well, he'd never had any particular preference.

Crows weren't allowed one.

He wondered if bards were.

* * *

**Maraas/Ketojan**

Maraas was hiding in the rocks, hoping the nearby group of qunari would not discover him. It was sheer luck that he had seen them approaching up the steep trails in time to move into hiding; they had an arvaarad with them. He would have died very quickly – and very painfully – if they had caught sight of him. They stopped in the sandy hollow below where he was hidden, some laying a driftwood fire to cook a meal while others searched the area in pairs, as was proper. At one point only a single large boulder hid him from the view of one such pair; they had stopped, just out of sight from him, talking together in low voices. Between the wind and how quietly they spoke, he caught only a word here and there - "karataam" was one, the qunari term for a string of chained mages, but they had spoken of them with the wording that meant that they spoke of the dead, not of living saarebas. He wondered if the arvaarad had killed the saarebas, or if someone else had. He guessed, from their search, that one body had yet to be found; more likely someone else then. An arvaarad did not miss his targets.

He had lain motionless in the sand, certain that now would be the day of his death. He had almost come to accept it, and then someone had called out that the meal was ready, and the pair had moved away again.

The fitful winds had teased him, carrying him the scent of their food, as it had earlier tantalized him with fragments of their speech. Days, since he had last eaten well, having found himself no more suited for living with other tal'vashoth than he was to living under the qun. He had scavenged what supplies he could from the wreckage left after the human warrior and his friends had killed a nest of such; but that had only lasted a handful of days, and on this barren, rocky coast there was no easy source of food unless he wished to turn to the very same banditry that had caused him to part from the others.

His reverie was broken by the sound of angry voices, at least one of which was familiar. He hesitated, then carefully moved to where he could peer out between two rocks, hoping that whatever was happening below would prevent anyone from spying him out.

The arvaarad was standing before his men, facing toward a nearby trail that led, Maraas knew, to a cave entrance, hidden behind a fall of the tough thin-leafed vines that were one of the few kinds of vegetation that flourished here. It was the human warrior, accompanied by several of his friends and... Maraas gaped, shocked. A _saarebas!_

Even as he watched, the arvaarad and the warrior both drew their weapons, the patrol of qunari and Hawke's companions quickly doing the same. The battle that followed was fierce, but short-lived, surprisingly so, the qunari falling with deplorable swiftness to the humans, elf and dwarf.

Hawke spoke briefly to the chained one, the saarebas making obvious motions of negation to whatever it was the human was saying. Finally Hawke and his friends moved away, back up the trail toward the cave. They stopped partway up, Hawke looking back at the motionless saarebas. He lifted one hand in farewell, though the mage could not see such a gesture, and called out. "Ketojan – you are free, if that is your choice. Do whatever you wish with your life."

Only once they were gone, vanished around the curve of the hill and into the cave, did Maraas finally stir. He rose silently to his feet and started down the hill to where the saarebas still stood motionless, facing into the wind blowing off the rock-strewn bay below, the white strands of his hair stirring as the wind toyed with them. He should have known a saarebas would have exceptional hearing; the first time one of his calloused feet scraped across a rock the mage spun around, hands raised threateningly. Maraas dove into cover behind another rock, flinching as a blast of magic hit it.

"Wait!" he called out, in the qunari tongue. "I mean you no harm. I am Maraas... I seek only some food. And perhaps some company, if you are not averse; I am no bandit, though I no longer live under the qun."

The saarebas stood motionless for a long moment, then slowly lowered his hands, head tilting just slightly to one side.

"You are called Ketojan?" Maraas asked as he cautiously rode to his feet again, and resumed picking his way down the rocks.

The other merely grunted in answer; he had to guess the saarebas meant yes, from the slight forward dip of its head that was all the heavy collar locked around its throat allowed it to make.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, as he walked over to the fire, stooping down to pick up piece of flat-bread wrapped around meat and vegetables from where it rested on a rock, just a couple of bites taken from it.

Ketojan grunted again. It was only when the saarebas began to carefully pick his way across the corpse-strewn ground towards him that Maraas realized the first of many problems they might face; he didn't have any idea at all of how one went about feeding a saarebas, the stitching of their mouths precluding anything solid.

He'd have to figure it out. Perhaps the saarebas would be willing to have the stitching removed. If not... well, water and a pot and something to add to it made broth, easily enough, and surely somewhere in the supplies the dead had left behind there must be such a thing. For now... for now, he pulled his knife from his belt, and pared a sliver off one of the firmer vegetables in his wrap. He took Ketojan's hand, turning it palm-upright, and put the fragment of food in it. To his relief, the other sniffed at it, then promptly took it between his fingertips, and delicately threaded it between two of his stitches, holding his hand out for another as as he chewed carefully at the tiny morsel.

It was at least a start.

* * *

**Anders/Velanna – Goosing**

"And about this... ducking?" Velanna asked, hesitantly.

"Goosing," Anders corrected her.

She gave a short, sharp nod. "This 'goosing' you spoke of. You say this is a sign of affection among humans as well?"

"Err... yes. Or at least a sign of interest, if not necessarily affection."

Velanna frowned. They walked on in silence, the only real sound that of the wind in the trees far overhead, occasional bird song, and the faint sounds of the Warden-Commander and Nathaniel somewhere further ahead of them on the trail, the two talking quietly together.

"What does it involve?" she abruptly asked. "Can you tell me?"

Anders blushed. "It's, um... one of those things that's easier to show than to tell," he told her.

Velanna gave him a suspicious look. "Do you seek to 'hit on me', human? I will not tolerate it."

"Maker, no!" Anders hastily assured her. "Look... let's catch up to the others. Keep an eye on me; I'll demonstrate on Nathaniel, okay?"

Velanna considered the offer thoughtfully, then gave a nod and sped up, Anders hurrying along after her.

A few minutes later, Nathaniel gave a startled squawk, and an impromptu attempt at levitation. A little while after that, the Warden-Commander did the same.

As the two of them were given a dressing-down by the Warden-Commander, Anders wished Velanna had mentioned who she was interested in indicating a little affection to; he could have told her that the Warden-Commander, while certainly appreciative of blond elves, was already very taken by one.

Still, there was an upside to the situation, he found himself thinking later that evening as Nathaniel both dressed him down in turn, and undressed him.

* * *

**Anders/Varric – Kiss & Tell**

He couldn't really have said what prompted him to do it. Maybe it was the expression on Blondie's face as he slumped against the edge of the table beside Varric. Maybe it was just too many late nights writing about the fun and games other people got up to while never getting up to any of his own. Maybe it was just curiosity; maybe it was the wine.

In any case, he leaned over, reaching out with one hand to thread his fingers into the hair at the back of the mage's head. Gentle pressure made Anders turn to face him. A slight tilt of the head; a feather-light brush of lips. A hesitation, both of them very still. Brown eyes looking into his own from mere inches away, slightly puzzled, slightly yearning, not in the least disturbed. He kissed him a second time, firmer and for just a little longer, his own eyes drifting half-closed as he concentrated on the feeling of warm soft lips against his, a tiny roughness to one side where the mage's lip was healing from a split caused by the winter-dry air.

Anders made a sound; a moan, a sigh, it didn't matter, what registered to Varric was the hands that rose to cup his face, the fact that it was the mage who started their third kiss. A lunge, almost desperate, their lips meeting forcefully, mashed painfully against his own teeth before Anders eased off a little. A tongue, warm and slick, tickling at his mouth. He hesitated, then let his lips part, just a little, groaning a little himself as Anders' tongue slid warm and wet and tasting of wine into his mouth. He groaned again, his pants feeling uncomfortably tight as his flesh took a marked interest in what he was doing. Their kiss deepened, stopped, restarted again. He lost count of how many kisses there had been, now.

And then the mage abruptly started backwards, eyes wide and almost frightened. "Sorry," Anders exclaimed, breathlessly, wiping the back of his hand across kiss-swollen, reddened lips. Then he rose and plunged away, motion quick enough to billow out the tail of his stained and ragged coat behind him.

Varric sat very still, waiting while his rapid breathing slowed to normal, then sighed, and picked up his pen, turning back to the manuscript he'd been working on. He re-read the scene, considered crossing it out and rewriting the kiss and subsequent happenings – after all, he had some original research to back up his prose about just how well Anders kissed now – then decided not. Anders wouldn't appreciate it; and neither would Hawke, if he ever learned of it.

He just hoped Anders wasn't the sort to kiss and tell.

* * *

**Leliana/Sebastian**

She was intrigued by the archer; it was, after all, her own speciality as well. Moreover he was very handsome, and dashing, and quite well-dressed, with a most delicious voice. The look he had given her on her appearance was quite frankly appreciative, too, always a good sign. She departed anyway, of course – a good dramatic exit was never something to waste – but then took to the shadows, circling around and following after this so-named Hawke and her companions as they left the Viscount's Keep.

The champion headed off across the square with the exotically marked elf, disappearing through the front door of a mansion not far from the keep. The mage stalked off in much the same direction, but continued going, headed towards Lowtown or Darktown she supposed, his hunched shoulders and feathered mantle giving him an appearance like a rather scruffy bird, rapidly vanishing in the darkened streets. The archer, much to her interest, set off through Hightown, in the direction of the chantry.

She barely hesitated before taking to the rooftops and following after him, watching with interest as he walked quietly through the silent streets, soon reaching and entering the courtyard before the chantry. He stopped there, and stood still for several minutes, head lifted, apparently studying the two tall towers. Finally he resumed walking again, climbing the stairs and then, to her surprise, disappearing. He had not gone in the main doors; she would have seen the candle light from inside if those had opened.

This time she did hesitate, biting her lip for a moment before finally stirring into motion again, dropping back down to ground level in a shadowed corner. She crept up the stairs, keeping as much to the shadows as they could, until she reached the darker shadows at the top. There she stood very still, only her eyes moving, looking for any sign of where he'd gone. She almost missed it; only her great familiarity with chantry architecture around much of Thedas allowed her to spot the door hidden in the decorative carvings off to one side, its presence marked only by a slightly deeper and darker groove encompassing a vaguely rectangular shape. It was the work of moments to locate the hidden handle, open the door, and slip inside. It opened and closed easily and silently – well-balanced, and well-oiled - letting her in to a small, unlit antechamber. From there a second door let her into a larger, dimly-lit room.

No sooner had she stepped inside when strong arms wrapped around her, a hand clamping over her mouth. She drove her elbow back, expecting to meet only cloth, and hissed through her nose in pain as it encountered unyielding armour instead.

"I _thought_ I was being followed," a warm voice said quietly near her ear, rich with satisfaction and amusment. A familiar voice; the archer. He released her as suddenly as he'd caught her, moving a step away before giving her an abbreviated bow and then an enquiring look. "Sister Nightingale – I am surprised. Did you not say you needed to depart immediately?"

She smiled charmingly at him and shrugged. "My curiosity got the better of me. You seem a fascinating man," she said, and stepped closer to him, reaching out to adjust the hang of his little chest-plate, knocked just slightly askew by the blow from her elbow. She looked up at him from under lowered eyes. "I do in fact have a few hours to spare before I must reach my ship. Perhaps you could help me pass the time?" she asked, and moistened her lower lip, arching her neck and turning her head _just so_ , to better display the graceful curve of her neck, the flawlessness of her cheek.

To her annoyance he stepped backwards away from her, ignoring the obvious inviation. "Unfortunately I have had a very tiring night already," he said calmly. "And I am vowed to another. Good night, Sister Nightingale," he said, and gave her the barest of bows.

Her pride stung, she frowned at the man. "Vowed to another? Grand-Cleric Elthina perhaps?" she asked archly, guessing as to what had brought him to the chantry, why he had seemed so concerned about the Grand-Cleric's safety earlier.

"No," he said, voice still calm. He turned, and began to walk away, then paused to look back over his shoulder at her. "To Andraste. I am a brother in the faith, Sister Nightingale." He resumed walking. "I assume you can let yourself out," he added, just before vanishing out of sight.

Leliana cursed under her breath, then sighed, thankful that no one had been a witness to that particular encounter. And felt surprised; he had not at all given off the feeling of a sworn religious.

She let herself back out, wondering just who the archer was.

* * *

**Darkspawn Chronicles Alistair and Leliana – The Rose**

Another night spent camped by the side of the road, all three of them foot-sore and exhausted. Four, if you counted the mabari, which Fereldans most certainly did. Leliana even found herself addressing Barkspawn as if he was human at times, and found his sometimes oddly appropriate responses disconcerting.

Morrigan had as usual set up her own fire some distance from the one Leliana and Alistair shared; while she seemed to quite enjoy staying close to them during the day, interjecting the occasional cutting remark into the conversation, she preferred her privacy at night. Not for the first time, and likely not for the last either, Leliana found herself wishing they could dispense with the witch. But they were too few in number to turn away any help offered, even if it came wrapped in sarcasm and well-seasoned with bitterness and bile. Morrigan had not wanted to accompany him, Alistair had confided to her one evening shortly after she'd joined him; it was only on her mother's orders that the witch had followed and helped him.

Perhaps that explained why Morrigan took more far delight in taunting Alistair than in supporting him. Perhaps that explained, too, how relieved Alistair had been when Leliana insisted that she must join his party. Travelling with just Morrigan and Barkspawn for company could not have been easy on him. Not that even the addition of her and her skills with bow and daggers had made things _easy_. If only they'd had more help, she found herself thinking, slumping exhaustedly by the fire.

Alistair rose and moved around from where he'd been, sitting down again at her side. She couldn't help but smile at the mischievous look her gave her. "Hey. Long day, wasn't it?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, and groaned, rubbing at her legs and feet. "I am so sore! My feet are killing me; I wish I had proper shoes," she added, grimacing at the pair of boots standing near the fire, dying out after getting thoroughly soaked wading across a stream earlier that day. They were old, the leather dry and cracked, and far too large for her feet, even with several layers of socks and binding them tightly. But they'd been the only footwear in the small cache of armour and weapons they'd found in the empty smithy in Redcliffe village, and her shoes were worn to ribbons by then from the long walk from Lothering. There might have been better boots available elsewhere in the deserted village, but the quiet and the lingering stench of the dead had dissuaded them from any more thorough search. They had decided against spending the night there, and moved on quickly, something they'd all been very glad of when they'd later encountered a handful of survivors from the massacre there.

"Well, I don't have any better footwear for you, I'm sorry to say, but I might have something that will lift your spirits at least a little," Alistair said.

"What's that?" she asked him curiously.

He smiled, then leaned off to the side, hooking his fingers in the straps of his backpack and dragging it close. He set it in his lap, opening it and digging in its depths for a moment.

She grimaced at the smell that emerged from the opened bag; dirty socks, or old cheese, possibly both knowing Alistair's habits.

Finally he found what he was looking for, a handful of silky cloth, stained and torn; a bit torn from a good shirt, perhaps, or a scarf. He unfolded it carefully.

She gasped as the object in the centre of it came into view; a rose, a red rose, exactly like the one that had convinced her that she should follow after the warden and aid him. It was beautiful, its petals still soft and fresh, the leaves a verdant green, looking freshly cut.

"Oh, Alistair – it's lovely!" she exclaimed as he took the stem carefully between his fingers, untangling its thorns from the soft fabric. "Wherever did you find it?"

"I picked it in Lothering," he said, looking at her sideways, and smiling that crooked little smile of his that made him seem like a young boy instead of a man grown.

"Lothering! But..." she fell silent, staring at the rose. Weeks – no, months – since they had left that doomed little town. How could it still look so fresh and beautiful after all this time? Unless... perhaps it was a miracle?

Alistair was still speaking, not having noticed her exclamation. "I remember thinking, 'How could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness?' I probably should have left it there, but I couldn't. The darkspawn would destroyed it when they came, if it was even still in bloom. So I picked it, and that funny little dwarf we rescued on the way out of town enchanted it for me before he left. I've had it ever since," he explained, then turned and held it out to her, smiling. "I thought that I might... give it to you, actually. In a lot of ways, I think the same thing when I look at you. That you're so beautiful, among all this despair and ugliness..."

"Oh, Alistair!" she exclaimed, gently lifting it from his hands, feeling her eyes fill with tears. She drew in an appreciative breath of the faint rose scent wafting from the bloom, then held it carefully off to one side while she threw her other arm around him in a tight one-armed hug, kissing him on the cheek and ignoring the painful way the edges of his armour dug in through her worn-thin robe. "Thank you! That is such a lovely thought!"

Alistair smiled, and turned bright pink with pleasure over her reaction. "I'm glad you like it," he said bashfully.

"I do! I like it very much! I will treasure it forever! Oh, it's so very beautiful," she exclaimed, and kissed him again.

He had turned toward her as she moved to kiss him; it ended up being on the lips, rather than on the cheek as she'd intended. And she found she did not mind; he was a good man, and kind, and trustworthy, and so very obviously inexperienced... he was safe for her to care for. Safe to let close to her. She was not ready yet to take a man to her bed again, but then he was not ready to be taken, either – perhaps they could work on that together, she thought, and smiled warmly at him when the kiss ended.

* * *

**Sebastian/Fenris – How they ended up as Grey Wardens**

Sebastian scowled angrily and turned away. She just didn't understand. His entire family was dead, murdered, and all Elthina could say was platitudes about trusting in the Maker and His plans. He crumpled the sheet of parchment in his hands as he stalked away, tossing it away in a corner. Tear down his notice, would she? Fine. Perhaps it was time he moved on; he'd come to love his life in the chantry in the years since he'd been forced into it, but maybe it was time to re-evaluate that choice.

Sebastian had walked all the way down to the docks before his rage finally receded. He sighed, and settled one hip on the top of a bollard, hands lax in his lap, and stared out across the sun-sparkled waters, breeze ruffling his hair. He sat there for a while, thinking about his family, all dead now. For a brief while he entertained the thought of returning to Starkhaven, reclaiming his father's throne... but that was just an idle fantasy, he had to admit. It was unlikely that any of the nobles there would be willing to support him, not when his cousin Goren had already claimed the throne; someone they knew, as opposed to him, absent for years in the chantry and likely only remembered as the wastrel son, if at all. No, he thought glumly; better to find his own way in the world.

But where to go, what to do... even as recently as a few months ago, he might conceivably have joined up with one of the groups of mercenaries being hired to cross over to Ferelden and combat the blight; but the blight was over now, the mercenaries already scattering back to their usual haunts across Thedas, those who had survived their sojourns in that war-torn country. Perhaps he could go west, to Nevarra or Orlais... word was their intermittent border war was heating up again. But Nevarra, he knew, preferred to use their own soldiers over mercenaries – they remembered all-too-well their past occupation by Orlais after Orlesian forces had refused to vacate the country at the end of the Third Blight. And the thought of working for the Orlesian side just didn't set well with him, knowing as he did how long that empire had been wanting to expand down the entire length of the Minanter, swallowing all of the Free Marches, including the lands of Starkhaven.

Most of the Free Marches he decided against, as being too close to Starkhaven or Kirkwall or both. Antiva... too many assassins; politics there was usually bloody, on a very small and very personal scale, not involving groups of mercenaries, and guardsmen were only valued if they had Crow training, which he certainly did not. Rivain was too much involved with the qunari in the north, and too... _strange_... in the south, clinging as they did to vestiges of their old faith, and belief in seers.

His thoughts inevitably circled back around to Ferelden. The mercenaries were leaving there, true, but that didn't mean that there might not be good opportunities there for a reasonably talented man, which he was not fool enough to deny that he was. They had lost a large portion of their population during the blight; dead in the debacle in their southern lands, or in the civil war that followed hard on its heels, or during the final paroxysms of the blight war itself. Not to mention all those who had fled abroad, and now had no intention of returning. Surely there would be plenty of things there that a man good with a bow and willing to work hard could undertake.

Sebastian rose to his feet, and strolled along the docks. It didn't take long to find what he wanted; a ship loading cargo for the run across the Waking Sea to Amaranthine in northern Ferelden. A port city; as good a place as any to start his search for a new life, new purpose. He briefly considered going back up to the chantry in Hightown, packing what few personal belongings he owned – but on reflection, there was nothing in his room there that could not be replaced. He was wearing his armour, carrying his weapons, his purse was on his belt, and what few keepsakes he possessed were all very small objects, and safely tucked away in one of the myriad pouches lining his belt. No, he needed nothing more than what he was standing wearing.

A pair of gold coins paid for passage across the Waking Sea, in a so-called 'private' cabin, little more than a roughly walled off bit of space in the hold. He was the only passenger heading south, or so he thought until they were a day out of port and he caught a glimpse of movement among the cargo stowed in the large hold his cabin was adjacent to; _not_ a rat or a member of the crew. A stowaway, he judged. He decided against informing the captain right away, and when he got his next meal – a ration of hard biscuits, salt beef, and water – left a biscuit and a bit of meat out on a barrel head. It was gone when he looked later, bringing a slight smile to his lips. He wondered who was so desperate to leave Kirkwall as to stow away on the Ferelden-bound ship. An apostate, possibly? That was a worrisome though.

He would, he resolved, have to try and engineer an encounter with the stowaway. He found the prospect interesting him; it would at least distract him from other worries over the few days the crossing took.

* * *

**Nanders/Bethany (Take Two)**

Bethany hesitated, one hand tightening nervously on the skirts of her robe, then knocked on the door as quietly as she could. She felt horribly self-conscious, standing there in the deserted hallway, in full view of anyone who chanced to come out of one of the other rooms, or walk up the stairs at the end of the hall. To her over-sensitive nerves, the quiet knock seemed like a thunderous sound.

The door opened quickly; Nathaniel stood there, dressed not in the blue and grey armour she was used to seeing him in, but in an open-collared tunic and loose leggings. Anders appeared at his shoulder, smiling welcomingly at her, dressed in a comfortably shabby set of old robes. It made her feel overdressed, especially when she noticed Nathaniel's bare feet; not even stockings, much less the soft indoor shoes most people wore within their own quarters.

"Come in," Nathaniel said, stepping back – bumping into Anders as he did so, and giving the mage a brief, annoyed glance – while holding the door wider and gesturing with one hand.

She slipped into the room quickly, feeling relieved when the door shut behind her, blushing in self-conscious embarrassment now that she was here. She still couldn't believe she'd taken the two men up on their offer; couldn't believe they'd even _made_ the offer. She still remembered so clearly how disappointed she'd felt when she realized that the two of them were a couple, sharing not just a room but a bed. She'd assumed, of course, that they were committed to each other; when she'd heard the first quiet gossip that indicated their relationship was rather more _open_ than she'd thought... well, she hadn't really believed it at first.

And then had some the Firstday party last month, and an embarrassing incident with a spilled goblet of red wine, and then _flirting_ , not from just one of the men but both. After that the two of them were always taking turns in making her blush or laugh over their banter whenever they met, on patrol or in the practise yard or the dining hall. And then... the invitation, delivered quite gallantly and discretely by Nathaniel, inviting her to join the two of them in their room this evening. Making it very clear that the invitation was for rather more than just talk, or a meal.

Her sister, she knew, would have jumped at the chance, but then Marian had never been hesitant to go after whatever it was she wanted. The thought bolstered Bethany's courage, enabling her to smile rather than recoil nervously when Nathaniel lifted her hand, and ghosted a kiss across her knuckles, or when she caught the frankly appreciative look that Anders was giving her.

They did start with talk, and a meal, with plenty of wine, and amusing anecdotes and flattery and flirting from both men. She was feeling quite relaxed and rather frankly curious by the time they moved on to other things. Touching. Hugging. Kisses. Caresses. It was rather dreamlike, but the best kind of dream, a relaxed floating from moment to moment as clothing – and inhibitions – gradually melted away. She eventually found herself on the bed between them, leaning backwards against Nathaniel as he nuzzled her neck, and ran those beautiful hands of his across her skin, cupping her breasts, teasing her nipples, running them down her belly to caress the ticklishly sensitive skin where hip joined body, leaving pleasant heat and tingling sensitivity everywhere they passed. And there was Anders on his stomach between her legs, doing things with his mouth, with tongue and fingers that she'd never even _imagined_. Her earlier fear and hesitation was forgotten, lost in the pleasure of sharing a wide bed with two handsome, careful, caring, and above-all _experienced_ men.

When they finally slept, much, much later that night, it was cuddled together, their limbs entangled. Bethany was tucked safe and secure in between the two men, their arms draped over her, Nathaniel's head resting against her shoulder, Anders' pillowed on her breast, his breath gusting warm across her skin as faint little snores escaped his slack mouth. She smiled as she slowly drifted off to sleep, hoping only that there'd be more nights like this with the pair.


	33. Ask Box Ficlets 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some very long ones in here, including two that are sequels to prompts earlier in the set. Several days of writing, all told :)

**Oghren and Wynne – Battle Scars**

"Blast it, woman, what are you trying to do, tear my leg right off!?" Oghren exclaimed, trying to jerk the limb in question out of the elderly mage's grasp.

Wynne, however, was much stronger than her age and apparent frailty would lead one to believe; she easily maintained a hold on the dwarf's ankle with just one hand, the other held cupped over a ragged gash down the side of his shin. "You seem to have been making a pretty good attempt at that yourself already, I doubt you need _my_ help," she pointed out. "However did you managed to cut yourself so badly anyway?"

Oghren flushed, and muttered something into his beard, something that included the words"small drink", "tripped" and "blighted sharp rock". Wynne snorted softly, and shook her head slightly, running her hand slowly down the length of the deep gash, the flesh knitting together behind it.

"Well, that's the best I can do," she said after a moment, and pursed her lips as she frowned at the ragged groove left behind. "I'm afraid that's going to scar."

"Oh?" Oghren said, perking right up again, and twisted around to peer at the ugly reddened mark that still remained. "Say, if anyone asks, I don't suppose you can tell them I got it fighting off an ogre, now could you?" he asked hopefully, then took in the expression on Wynne's face and wilted again. "Nevermind. Forget I asked."

"I'll try my best," Wynne said dryly, and rose to her feet, dusting her hands off. "Do try to get back to your tent without tripping over any more rocks, will you?"

"Yeah, yeah," Oghren agreed, and levered himself back to his feet, gingerly testing the newly-healed leg before putting his full weight on it and heading away.

He was, Wynne noticed, peering worriedly around at the darkness beyond the small ring of firelight rather than watching his footing, and muttering something under his breath about schleets.

* * *

**Tomwise/m!Hawke**

He stopped at Tomwise's stall after leaving Anders at the clinic. The elf had already closed down for the day, but as his stall was his home, closing merely meant that his supplies were locked away in the chest that formed part of the base of his pallet. The elf was sitting on the narrow bed, his back against the wall, eating with his fingers from a battered tin plate in his lap. He looked up warily at Hawke's approach, then smiled slightly when he saw who it was.

"Hawke. Surprised to see you down here again. Heard you'd moved on up in the world – Hightown, isn't it?"

Hawke grimaced. "Only to please my mother. The part where we moved out of my Uncle's squalid little hovel, I liked that. The part where we now live surrounded by a bunch of nose-in-the-air so-called nobles, I can live without."

Tomwise snorted and put aside his plate, turning to swing his feet to the floor and sit upright, facing Hawke. "There are worse places to live," he said, and made a gesture at their current surroundings. "Like here. Most of the people here would probably kill to live in a place even as grand as your uncle's 'squalid little hovel', you know. Me included, if it wasn't for the fact that trying to live as a free elf anywhere but the alienage or Darktown is an excellent recipe for acquiring a cut throat. Or worse."

Hawke grimaced again. "I know," he said, and then smiled winningly at the elf. "Accept my apology for being a world class self-obsessed arse?"

Tomwise snorted, then gave Hawke a crooked smile. "I suppose I can do that," he agreed, rising to his feet. "So why are you gracing me with your exalted presence, Hawke?"

Hawke's grin widened. "I don't suppose you have anyone you'd trust to look after your stall for a little while? Say, overnight?"

Tomwise's eyes narrowed for a moment, then he shrugged. "Maybe. Why?"

"Thinking it might be nice to have some company tonight. For both of us," Hawke said, leaning on the bare counter and smiling as charmingly as he could at the elf. "I'll even throw in dinner. A bath, too, if you'd like one. Or two. Or three."

Tomwise raised an eyebrow, his arms crossing as he gave Hawke a look. "Trying to convince your new neighbours that you're a pervy elf fancier?"

"Sure, why not... at least half of _them_ are," Hawke said, grinning wolfishly.

"True, but most of them prefer to be the one doing the fucking, not the one being..."

Hawke interrupted him with a lifted hand. "Shush! Such terrible coarse language. Utterly wasted outside of the bedroom, my dear."

Tomwise snorted again, then suddenly grinned and shrugged. "Why not. I've always wondered what a Hightown mansion looked like from the inside. But if my stock grows legs and walks while I'm with you, you have to pay for all of it."

"Deal. As long as you pick someone trustworthy to keep an eye on it in the first place; or I could just carry that chest of yours over to Anders' clinic and ask him to look after it overnight?" he offered, raising an eyebrow.

Tomwise grimaced. "I prefer finding someone myself, thanks," he said. "Wait here."

He walked off down the dimly lit passage, returning a few minutes later with a small group of people in tow – an old grandfather, a younger woman, and three small children, all Ferelden refugees by the look of them. Hawke tipped the woman a silver coin, then led Tomwise off toward the lift. He glanced back as they left, seeing the three children already scrabbling over the scraps left on Tomwise's plate.

"There but for the grace of Andraste..." he muttered, and shook his head, then resolutely turned his attention back to the elf walking along at his side, already anticipating the night ahead.

* * *

**Ser Cauthrien/Bann Teagan – Swords or Shields**

Bann Teagan left the Landsmeet chamber unsure of whether to feel elated or dejected. The brief civil war was ended, the country once again united against the threat of the darkspawn. They still had a queen, and would soon have a king as well. All good things. But the cost of it all – the many already dead, and the further death today of a once-great man. And Alistair – he was sure the boy had no interest in marrying Anora or ruling Ferelden, but events – and Bann Teagan's brother Eamon – had forced the choice on him.

He needed some time to himself, he decided, some time to think, before he returned to the guest room he was occupying in his brother's currently overcrowded estate. Rather then heading to the main entrance of the building and leaving, he turned down a side corridor, emerging out a side door into one of several gardens that surrounded the building. This particular one was one his favourites, done in the style of a wilderness, complete with a tumbled-down wall overgrown with flowering vines in the middle of it, and a small pond and artificial grotto at one end. He took the long way to the pond, strolling along the gravelled path that circled around the ruined wall, pausing occasionally to admire the landscaping along the way.

Teagan was feeling considerably more relaxed by the time the pond came in sight. And promptly tensed again, when he saw someone already there, sitting on a rock beside the pond, watching the colourful fishes swimming in the dark waters. He hesitated, considering whether to turn and leave again, wen the person – a woman, he realized, turned her head and looked his way, clearly aware of his approach. Nothing for it then but to continue forward.

He was surprised to recognize her as he drew closer; surprised too by who it was. Ser Cauthrien, long Loghain's right-hand man, and the commander of Maric's Shield. Her face was pale, set in a grim expression. He stopped some feet away, and bowed deeply to her. "My condolences, Ser Cauthrien," he said quietly.

She didn't respond at first, just started blankly at him. Then she blinked, her eyes filling with tears, and turned her head away, looking at the pond again. "He's dead then," she said, flatly. Not really a question.

He froze for a moment... had no one told her? Then why... And then he remembered, how she and a select handful of the Shield had been standing guard outside the entrance to the Landsmeet chamber earlier in the day. He'd thought nothing of it at the time – such a guard was normal – but now he realized that the warden and Alistair must have had to pass by her to enter the chamber. There had been no sounds of a fight, and she was uninjured... she must, he was equally parts appalled and amazed to realize, have put aside her loyalty to Loghain and stood down the guards, allowing them free entry to the chamber.

"Yes, he is dead," he said quietly.

Her head lowered, her hands tightening together. "Was it fast?" she asked, voice ragged.

"Yes," he said after a moment, remembering the scything motion of Alistair's sword, the spray of blood as Loghain's head flew free. "It was very fast."

She nodded, still looking down at her hands. "Thank you," she said, voice dull and empty.

He stood still a long moment. When it became clear she was going to say or ask nothing else, he decided it best to leave her in privacy, and turned away. He'd walked some steps away before he stopped, and turned back to her. "Ser Cauthrien," he called out.

She lifted her head to look at him, not bothering to try and hide the tears streaking her face. "Yes, Bann Teagan?" she asked hoarsely.

"He'd have been proud of you," he said quietly. "You did what was right to protect Ferelden, not any one man."

She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and nodded. "That doesn't make it any easier," she said.

"No. It doesn't," Teagan agreed. "But Loghain knew that as well – all too well, I suspect. He was a great man," he said, and only then turned and left, leaving Ser Cauthrien to her grief.

* * *

**Nathaniel/Bethany – First Satinalia Together**

It was good to be back in Ferelden for a proper Satinalia. Not the overblown Orlesian version, as was celebrated in Kirkwall with masked balls (for the rich) and guild suppers (for the not so rich) and private entertainments at home (for the rich, and the not so rich, and for any of the poor who had any inclination to celebrate). No, this was the proper Ferelden version, where everyone gathered, rich or poor and everything in between, for a shared feast and dance, with costumes and masks and gifts for all and sundry, everything from little grab bags given out to everyone at the dance – invariably containing cookies or sweet buns, studded with nuts and dried fruit, along with a few pieces of precious candy – to special gifts from special friends.

She looked around the crowded castle courtyard, ringed with food-laden tables, the centre already filled with people dancing to music played by a group of musicians – all local volunteers – seated on crates on the inner walkway of the courtyard walls. Some people she could pick out easily, regardless of their costume – Velanna's haughty walk was scarcely disguised by her wonderful outfit, a loosely layered dress of some translucent green fabric with intricately beaded and embroidered hems worn over a sheath of heavier gold-coloured fabric, worn with an ornate mask made of thin pieces of leather shaped and coloured like leaves just taking their autumn colours. She looks like some sort of woodland goddess in it.

There was little Oghren could do to make his own short, stout frame look much different, and instead he'd settled on a thoroughly silly costume that his little daughter clearly adored. He had some sort of framework that was attached around his waist, and then covered over by the costume, making him appear to be a very short, stout centaur, his rear legs following behind him on little wheels, with a tail of real horse-hair. His daughter – dressed up as a dragon, with a stuffed tail slithering along behind her and wings dangling from her arms – was happily dancing in circles around him, sweeping her arms back and forth to make it look like she was flying, and giggling non-stop.

She heard a familiar laugh, and turned, and had to smile as she spotted Sigrun; judging by her appearance as a long-legged scarecrow, someone had taught the dwarf about stilts. Then she took a closer look at who Sigrun was dancing with, and felt her smile widen even further. His costume was very good – an outfit made of thick grey furs, mimicking the full-body pelt of a werewolf, with a hooded mask that covered his entire head – but she knew Nathaniel too well; the way he stood, the way he moved – and could tell it was him, even before he turned enough in the course of the dance for her to see the grey eyes exposed by the close-fitted mask.

She adjusted her own mask – a feathered concoction that gave her the look of an owl – and slipped through the crowds in his direction. She managed to reach him and Sigrun just as the dance ended. The two bowed to each other, and turned away in search of new partners. Nathaniel froze for a moment, as soon as he saw her – doubtless recognizing her as easily as she had him – then held out his hand. She took it, and smiled as he bowed extravagantly over it.

It was a country dance next, one that involved rather a lot of fast footwork and jumping back and forth within a small area. She was feeling a little breathless by the end of it, and could only wonder at how Nathaniel was managing it while dressed in heavy furs. Her guess that it must be tiring – and possibly rather overheating – proved correct when the dance ended and he immediately took her by the hand again and pulled her away, out of the dancing area and off toward the area where drinks were available. He was tugging at his mask even as he led her away, and had it pushed back to reveal his reddened face by the time they reached the casks of wine and ale.

He'd claimed mugs of ale for both of them – and taken a long pull from his own – before he finally turned back to her. "I begin to suspect that this was not the brightest idea for a costume that I've ever had," he said gravely.

She laughed. "Maybe if you'd worn it for Winterfest."

"Maybe," he agreed. "Still, I suspect I should change out of it."

Bethany smiled. "Perhaps I could lend you a hand with that?" she suggested.

He grinned for a moment. "Perhaps you might," he agreed, and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, leading her back in the direction of the Keep.

* * *

**Aveline/Wesley (Pre-Game) – Courage**

Wesley found himself sneaking looks at the woman standing at the other side of the chantry. He knew her name, of course, having made a point of learning it after the first time he'd seen her here, standing with a group of her fellow soldiers listening to the service – Aveline Du Lac, born in Orlais but raised in Ferelden by her widowed, exiled father, once a chevalier himself. She had, he knew, a fine singing voice; having been close enough to her once or twice to pick it out when they sang the chants. She also was a talented warrior, as skilled with sword and shield as he was himself; perhaps even more so, he thought, having managed to be in the vicinity of the practise yard once or twice when her troop was taking their turn at exercise.

He tore his eyes away from here, trying to pay attention to the service, but within a few minutes found himself looking that way again, admiring her strong profile for a moment. She was beautiful, he thought, admiring the way the sunlight filtering through the windows high overhead gleamed off her coppery hair, giving it highlights like golden fire. Her eyes, he knew, from the one time he'd been close enough to see, were a rich green, and her pale skin was scattered with freckles, not just on her face, but on her arms and shoulders too.

Her head started to turn his way, as she too glanced around the chantry, and he quickly turned his eyes away from her and back to the priest leading today's service.

The thought of her freckles would not leave him alone. He wondered – not for the first time – just how far down they went, and it was with an effort that he managed to tear his mind away from such improper thoughts to pay proper attention to the service again. It was only by concentrating on the service that he managed to stop himself looking at her again during the remainder of the service.

As the chantry emptied out afterwards, chance would have it that he found himself walking side by side with her as they headed for the exit. He snuck a glance sideways at her, and was startled to find her looking at him. They both quickly looked in different directions, but as they came closer to the door he found his eyes repeatedly turning back her way again. Just a few more steps and they'd be going their separate ways again, him off to the templar barracks nearby, she off to the army barracks near the west gate. And another week would pass, without a chance for him to try to screw up his courage enough to talk with her, until the next services...

As they stepped out into the sunlight, he looked over at her again, and met her eyes. "Hello... you're Aveline Du Lac, aren't you?" he asked, mentally wincing at such an awkward opening.

A faint pleased smile curved her lips, and she flushed, just slightly. "Yes, I am. And you're Ser Wesley Vallen, I believe?" she asked, sounding somehow both relieved and hesitant.

"Yes, I am," he agreed, and suddenly found himself feeling oddly buoyant over the simple fact of her already knowing his name.

* * *

**Nathaniel/Anders – A Night in Hightown**

"Anders!" Hawke all but barked at him. "Shut up. Sit down. You're staying."

Anders stopped, then turned and glared for a moment at the Champion. But Hawke's glare was considerably fiercer than his own, and his finger remained pointing at a nearby chair. Anders considered turning and leaving anyway... but he knew just how blighted _stubborn_ Hawke could be, and wouldn't put it past the man to try to physically prevent his exit if necessary..

"Fine," he snapped out, and stalked over to the chair, dropping into it and folding his arms across his chest, head lowered sullenly.

"Good boy," Hawke said, suddenly cheerful. "Now I'm going over to spend the night at Fenris' mansion, and you two are going to _talk_ while I am gone. Try not to destroy too much of the furniture," he said, and left in a swirl of robes before either of them could object.

Anders sat rigidly still, refusing to turn his head to look at the man standing uncomfortably by the fireplace. He'd put Vigil's Keep behind him – the place, and all the people there – and it just wasn't _fair_ for it to have re-entered his life so suddenly, especially now.

The other man stirred first, straightening up and taking a few steps in his direction. "We all thought you were dead, you know," Nathaniel said.

Anders hunched his shoulders slightly, not wanting to acknowledge the other man's presence, much less answer him. The silence dragged out, and out. Nathaniel had always been very good at waiting, having a hunter's patience; something that Anders himself most certainly lacked, apart from when planning and executing his escapes in the past. He didn't want to talk to Nathaniel... but the silence between them was something he couldn't stand for long.

"I didn't _want_ any of you to know I was still alive," he finally snapped out, keeping his eyes resolutely turned away from the other Grey Warden. "I didn't want any of you following me, or trying to take me back."

"Why, Anders?" Nathaniel asked, drifting a few steps closer. "I thought... I thought we were at least friends. Maybe even more than that..."

"It's _because_ we were friends that I didn't want any of you to know!" Anders exclaimed, then surged up out of his seat and began pacing agitatedly back and forth, hands gesturing as he spoke. "You don't know, you _can't_ know, what it was like for me, knowing that at any time the templars might show up and drag me away again. And then that damned Rolan betrayed me to a group of them – he said you all knew! That the Grey Wardens had agreed to give me over into their hands. They were going to kill me, make me tranquil, _something_ – I didn't give them a chance to. I killed them, and I ran. I've always been good at running," he added, bitterly.

Nathaniel stepped forward and caught his arm, bringing him to a stop, and forced Anders to face him. "We _didn't_ know – there was no agreement," Nathaniel said tersely. "Certainly none that _I_ ever heard of, and as second in command I would have. All we knew was that first Justice disappeared, and then you and Rolan did. It was _days_ until we found the remains – we thought it must have been a darkspawn attack. We were on edge for months, expecting further attacks. And... nothing."

Anders bit back his first impulsive answer. Nathaniel didn't know that he and Justice had merged – no one had known, though he thought Rolan might have suspected – and he didn't feel easy about letting him know, even now.

"We all mourned you," Nathaniel spoke again, quieter now, his voice intense. He released Anders' arm, his hand coming to rest on the mage's shoulder instead, squeezing it lightly. " _I_ mourned you."

His voice broke slightly on the final words. And that was enough to break Anders, too. He choked back a sob, feeling an overwhelming surge of grief and guilt, having some idea of what sorrow he must have caused Nathaniel.

Strong arms closed around him, pulling him into a familiar embrace. Years, since he'd last been held by the other, and yet it might have been yesterday, so right did it feel. His own arms moved, closing around the other man, clinging tightly to him. He rested his head on Nathaniel's shoulder – never the most comfortable of positions, given the difference in their heights – and let himself cry for a while, conscious of Nathaniel's hand rubbing soothingly up and down his back, of the rogue whispering comforting words in his ear.

"Dammit," Anders finally said, drawing back a little and straightening up again. "Seven years apart and you're still too blighted short for that to be comfortable for more than a few minutes."

That drew a startled laughed from Nathaniel, and then a fond smile. "The problem is, you're still too blighted _tall_ ," he said, then tangled his fingers into Anders' hair and pulled him down into a kiss. An awkward kiss; Anders wasn't at all expecting it, and wasn't entirely sure he wanted it, and... noses bumped, Nathaniel growled in irritation and twisted his head to a slightly different position, mashing their mouths together almost painfully hard when he did succeed. Anders felt Justice stirring in the back of his head, and had to think frantic reassurances to the spirit even as he gave in and allowed Nathaniel to kiss him. And then... and then it was suddenly very good, a kiss with seven years of sorrow and regret and missed passion backing it up, a kiss that said more than any words could about how much Nathaniel had cared, had missed him, had been hurt by him.

He was crying again when it ended, and yet feeling unaccountably happy.

"Tell me there's a bed somewhere around here," Nathaniel ordered him, his voice more than a little ragged. "Or I'll drag you onto the floor right here and now."

"Well... there's Hawke's bed," Anders said hesitantly, and then frowned worriedly. "But..."

"Good enough. _He's_ not using it tonight. Lead us to it," Nathaniel commanded.

Anders opened his mouth to protest, then took in the look in Nathaniel's eyes, and gave in. As he led Nate upstairs he found himself wondering which of them was stubborner – Nate, or Hawke. _Not_ a confrontation he ever wanted to be witness to, he decided. Or the cause of.

He really hoped Hawke didn't mind them making use of his bed.

* * *

**Leandra, Orana and Sandal – Orlesian Food**

Leandra felt more than a little nervous about the planned menu. She should, perhaps, have stuck to good solid Fereldan fare, things she was well-used to cooking. Marian, Bethany, Aveline and Anders would certainly all have appreciated it; a taste of home, for them, as it was for her. But she'd wanted to do something different, something special, and to her "special", in association with food, meant the sort of things that had been served at balls and parties in her youth; Orlesian food. Mostly dainty little bite-sized things, served on skewers or filling puff pastry casings, or piled prettily on crisp little crackers.

She'd volunteered to do it, to throw this party for Marian and her friends. It would be easy, she'd thought; she'd often helped her mother to organize such revels in her youth, and on a considerably larger scale at that. Of course, she'd forgotten a few minor details – such as the army of servants that her mother had at her command to carry out the arrangement. All Leandra had in the way of help was herself, a nervous ex-Tevinter slave with only basic cooking skills, and her butler's son, who was at least long on enthusiasm and surprisingly handy with a knife; he was currently engaged in shaping roses out of radishes and carving goldfish out of carrots.

Orana, in the meantime, was making dozens of little meatballs, which would be threaded on toothpicks with tiny tomatoes and pearl onions, and then roasted. After that there was puff pastry to be shaped or folded around any number of fillings from sweet to savoury and baked.

Leandra was working on the dessert; a seemingly endless number of little carefully cut cubes of cake, each of which needed to be individually iced and decorated, and then artfully arranged on a tray. After that there was still the soup and salad to put together out of Sandals' carefully carved creations. The soup would be a simple clear fish broth, with the carrot goldfish swimming in it and a waterlily made of a leaf of baby spinach and some shavings of pickled ginger root. The salad was a more challenging creation, involving radish roses and hardboiled egg swans in a bed of fresh greens.

"I am finished making roses," Sandal suddenly said, putting aside his knife. "What else can I help with?"

Leandra looked around distractedly, then indicated the rows of tiny tart tins arranged on a nearby counter. "Could you fill the tarts? The pastry for the upper crusts is already rolled out and cut, so you can put the tops on too. Cut a nice pattern in each, so the steam can vent, please."

Sandal happily agreed, and set to work on filling the tarts with berries and sliced fruit and sugar.

Perhaps, she later decided, not giving him a specific pattern to use had not been the best of decisions. But how was she to know about the odd effect that certain enchanted runes could have, especially when executed in short pastry and pie filling instead of good, solid, inedible rock...

* * *

**Hawke/Merrill – Too Tired to Sleep**

They had been lost for hours now, separated from the rest of their party and stumbling through the seemingly endless complex of caves. Together they'd fought past giant spiders, a cluster of undead and the abomination that had empowered them, and a large drake that, thanks to their efforts, was never going to get any larger.

"Look! There's light ahead!" Merrill exclaimed.

"With our luck, it'll be another drake. Or something worse," Hawke said, a little sourly.

A few minutes later they emerged into a large cavern. " _Maker_. See? I told you... it's something worse," Hawke said.

"Oh, my, this is all very... nice. And very... large. Is that lava?" Merrill enquired, turning around and around on the spot looking at everything around them.

"Yes, that is lava. No, it's not a nice place _at all_. We've come out in the blighted Deep Roads!" Hawke exclaimed, looking around worriedly. "All right. Back the way we came, _quickly_ , before we find ourselves knee deep in darkspawn or deep stalkers or something equally unpleasant."

Hawke led the way back into the tunnels, moving at a rapid pace, stopping occasionally to listen for any sound of anything following them. They walked for hours before Hawke was willing to slow their pace again.

"Hawke...?"

"Yes, Merrill?"

"Shouldn't we have come across the body of the drake we killed by now? If we were still going back the same way we came in?"

Hawke sighed. "Yes. We've gotten even more lost, if that's even remotely possible. I suppose we'd better start looking for a place to stop and camp for a while; a small side cave or something, some place defensible."

Naturally the section of caves they were now in – a long twisting tube of tunnel – proved to have no side caves at all, nor any other tunnels branching off it it. Just mile after mile of bare rock walls and sandy floor. It was, at least, Hawke was relieved to notice, trending generally upwards.

"Look... there's light again," Merrill said some hours later as the tunnel abruptly widened into a large stalactite-hung cave.

The light proved to come from a small side-cave, the ceiling hung with phosphorescent glow-worms that cast an eerie blue light over them. The entrance to it was a narrow passage, meeting Hawke's requirement of "some place defensible".

"It's like picnicking under the stars," Merrill said as she chewed on her share of rations; she was stretched out on her back, looking up at the ceiling overhead. Suddenly she yawned hugely. "Oh, my... how long have we been wandering around down here now anyway?"

"I don't know. Definitely more than a day. Maybe as long as two," Hawke said tiredly, then smiled at Merrill. "I'll take first watch while you get some sleep – I'm too tired and too wound up to sleep yet."

The only answer was a faint snore, the elf having already fallen asleep where she lay, a half-eaten strip of jerky still held in one hand.

"Well... I guess you're not suffering from the same problem," Hawke said, before rising up and walking over to the cave entrance to stand watch.

* * *

**Carver and Cullen**

It was only in the privacy of his own quarters, in the silence of his bedroom, that Cullen ever gave free reign to his private desires. Desires that always left him feeling unnerved and embarrassed, and sometimes even a little frightened, in the wake of his experiences in Ferelden. There he'd had it ground into him that desires were dangerous; a weakness, a weapon that could be used against you, either by the object of them, or by others.

Sometimes... rarely... he found himself drawn to one of his subordinates, taken by their attention to duty, their ability, their looks. And sometimes – thankfully even more rarely – one of his subordinates or the mages in their charge confessed an embarrassing level of interest in his own person, though to date he'd never actually taken advantage of whatever heated offers they made as a result of such fleeting infatuations.

Especially not when he'd seen already how it could sour the morale of the templars when their captains or commander played favourites, as Meredith all too often did with those under her command. Preference and perks given to those she favoured, and a blind eye too often turned to their misbehaviour. Punishment details (though never called that, of course) to those she disliked, along with a nit-picking scrutiny of their behaviour that made her mistrust of them obvious to all. He was neither one of her favourites nor one of the ones she despised, and walked a narrow line with her to keep it that way. It was enough to him that he had enough of her respect to be allowed to do his job with only minimal interference; he did not want her good regard.

With his own men (and women) he maintained a careful distance, treating them all as neutrally and evenhandedly as possible, showing only as much interest in them and their lives as was suitable to his position as their direct commander. On those rare occasions when he did find himself feeling attracted to someone, he kept it secret. He maintained his distance; he showed them no special favour. He hid any sign of interest in them, schooling himself to treat them exactly the same way as he treated everyone else.

But at night... at night, in the privacy of his room, he sometimes gave his imagination free reign. Imagined that his bed was not solitary, but shared. A wadded comforter became a warm body curled against his back, his imagination providing the gentle breath stirring the hair at the nape of his neck, the leg tucked between and tangled with his own. In his imagination the sword-calloused hand cupped lightly against his chest was not his own, nor the thumb that lightly flicked against his nipples, making them harden before the hand slid slowly down across the smooth planes of his chest and stomach, fingers trailing ticklishly across the sensitive flesh where hip joined torso. It was not his own fingertips that carded into the thick curls there, that cupped and massaged at his balls, toying with his penis, repeated teasing feather-light touches until it stood erect, drops of liquid welling from the slit in the end of drip on his bent thigh and dampen the sheets.

He bit down on his other hand, muffling a whimper as the hand – _not_ his hand, but the smaller one of his imagination, with shorter, blunt fingers, and a dusting of fine black hairs on the back of it – reached further back and down. He could well imagine those fingertips massaging the sensitive skin back of his balls, while the thumb – broad, and with a raggedly-chewed nail – stroked against his shaft, curling and uncurling against his heated, aching flesh. Imagined a head topped in messy black locks close to his own, even white teeth biting down on his shoulder, the muffled moan of desire the other man might make, as his hand curled around Cullen's cock and began a slow stroking motion.

He could picture it so easily in his head; his hips beginning to roll, thrusting in and out of that strong hand. Imagined how his buttocks would be pressing back against the other man's erection as they flexed, the other man's cock hard and warm against him, leaving a spot of sticky dampness where its tip rubbed against the small of his back. Imagined teeth worrying at his shoulder, and kisses, and maybe a bite or a suckling kiss hard enough to leave a reddened mark, something he could easily hide under his clothes and armour but that the two of them would still _know_ was there, him and his lover, their shared secret.

He could picture that lover taking fire from his own excitement, finally giving in and flipping him over on his back, pushing his legs up and back, spreading him wide before pressing slowly into him, a thick cock breaching him, filling him, the other man leaning forward over him, slamming into him, sweat-soaked black hair swaying around Carver's face, intense blue eyes staring down at Cullen while he cried out repeatedly in pleasure...

He came, his single soft cry still muffled by his own hand, his seed jetting out to splatter across his stomach and hand. He slowly lowered his legs back to the bed, and lay there, dazed and spent and already feeling more than a little ashamed. Feeling guilty at having used one of his subordinates so, even within the confines of his own head. And some small, tiny, restless part of him wishing, still, that he might at least once in his life have the reality there in his bed with him, and not just the fantasy.

* * *

**Loghain and Nathaniel – You Remind Me Of...**

Loghain leaned back against the wall, arms folded across his chest, watching Nathaniel taking his shots. Not just simple shots at an obvious target, which they'd started with over an hour before, but careful shots aimed to clip the top of tall willow wands set in the soft sand at the end of the enclosure, each arrow aimed at a different wand in the set of five. They'd done four sets so far, moving back another three paces after each, and were still tied.

The slightest of breezes stirred the air as Nathaniel released his fifth arrow; not enough to have made him miss a real target, such as a man or a deer, but still just enough breeze that his arrow passed by the fifth wand without touching it.

Loghain's turn then. His own skills were not what they had once been; long-gone were the days that his bow had been his primary means of survival, both to take down wildlife for food and protect him from the Orlesian invaders. Yet the contest between him and this younger warden, Arl Howe's son, was still a very close one, closer than some, perhaps, had expected.

He stepped to the line, drawing his first arrow and quickly glancing it over to be sure the shaft was straight, the fletching smooth, an automatic check that he could no more have skipped than he could have skipped breathing for more then a minute or two at a time. He nocked and drew the arrow, carefully sighting the target – hair-thin, at this distance – and breathed, and held, and released. The arrow flew straight and true. The willow wand swayed, the arrow springing off to the side as it was deflected by the flexible wood. The next arrow flew as true, and the next. The fourth missed, drawing a murmur of exclamations and quiet bets from the watching wardens. He had to make the last shot to tie Nathaniel and force another round, or miss and finally lose.

He glanced over at the younger man, smiling slightly, then took an arrow from his quiver. The fletching had split; he frowned, smoothing the quills back together with his thumb, then returned the arrow to the quiver and took out a different one. Again he nocked, and sighted, took a deep breath... waited... released.

And missed.

There was a roar of cheers from the watchers, for both himself and the Howe boy. Nathaniel walked over, and the two men clasped hands.

"Well shot," Nathaniel said, grinning warmly at him.

"And by you as well," Loghain said in acknowledgement, nodding to the younger man. "You have a very good eye."

"As do you," Nathaniel said, then had to turn away to accept congratulations from their fellow wardens.

As Loghain began to accept congratulations of his own, he was amused by the thought of how surprised people seemed about how well he'd shot. They seemed to have forgotten that he'd been an archer and a rogue, much like young Nathaniel, before becoming King Maric's right hand man, turning eventually into a warrior, and eventual general of the armies of Ferelden. In fact Nathaniel reminded him of his younger self in a lot of ways, right down to the black hair – his own was now peppered with white hairs – and grey eyes. If he hadn't known for certain that he'd never slept with Rendon Howe's wife, he might have wondered if he, like Maric, had sprinkled a few wild oats about in his younger days.

* * *

**Anders/Bethany – First night as a married couple**

Three years on the run could change a lot of things. Friendships; severing some, weakening or strengthening others, bringing in new ones. Relationships, within and without their group. Politics, both in the Free Marches and abroad, as the fallout of the events in Kirkwall changed the world around them. Not always changes for the better; sometimes changes for the worst. Changes he'd liked and changes he'd disliked, changes he hadn't cared about, changes he'd cared too much about.

And perhaps the change he liked most, that he'd found lasting love at last. Not the ephemeral thing he'd had with Karl, or the brief relationships he'd had during his years as an apostate, but real love, true love, love strong enough for the two people involved to have decided to commit to each other for the rest of their lives, no matter how short or long a time that might be.

He could only smile as he watched Bethany carefully removing her wedding dress, the same simple, unremarkable gown that Marian had worn when marrying Fenris two years ago. A dress made beautiful by the woman in it, not due to anything having to do with cut or material, with style or embellishment. He waited patiently while she hung it up and brushed it off, before she finally turned to him, a warm smile on her face, then finally took her in his arms, warm and alive and his, all his, as he was all hers.

The kiss they shared was even better than the one they'd shared earlier, before their friends. Because for this one they didn't have to worry about propriety, or feel self-conscious, or do anything but try to say with lips and touch how much they cared for each other, how happy they were, at this moment, in this place, with each other.

* * *


	34. Ask Box Ficlets 25 - Anders Porn Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the second annual "Anders Porn Week" on Tumblr this week, so if you suspect the following prompt fics might contain some degree of smut, I'd have to say that you're likely guessing right.

**Nathaniel/Anders – A Dark Corner**

It was, of course, all Nathaniel's fault, though Anders was certain that if they were actually caught, it would be he that got the blame for it. He always got the blame; he was the more obviously flirtatious of them, after all.

Not that Nathaniel didn't flirt. He was just, like the rogue he was, very _sneaky_ with it. Underhanded, even. Smouldering looks accompanied sometimes by a slow licking of lips. Touches in passing, unseen by anyone else, discrete groping that left the mage feeling all hot and bothered. A hand on his thigh out of sight under the table; a sudden kiss ghosting across the back of his neck as Nathaniel walked by him in the library.

He'd learned quickly not to react when teased; Nathaniel was never actually in range by the time people turned and looked at him, and would instead be giving him the same questioning, slightly annoyed look as everyone else. Nor did he ever attempt retaliating in kind, at least not after the second time the Warden-Commander dragged him into her office and gave him a dressing down about pestering his fellow wardens with unwanted attentions.

No. Only he knew just how _evil_ Nathaniel could be. In what was, he had to admit, a thoroughly exciting way, even if it did make him want to strangle the man sometimes. Though not now. No, _definitely_ not now, when after plaguing him with touches and looks and kisses all day, driving him half-mad with unrequited lust, the archer had cornered him in a darkened stairwell in an unfrequented part of the keep and was making up for all the earlier teasing. Not when he was pinned back against the wall, robes hiked up around his waist, Nathaniel's mouth busy on his throat while his hands were even busier, down out of sight between the mage's legs.

Anders whimpered as fingers curled and stretched and curled again inside him, the broad heel of a hand pressed hard between his legs. A calloused thumb stroked up the underside of his erection, then lightly traced the slick cap of his glans, warm fingers wrapped firmly over the upper curve of his shaft, drawing another whimpering sound from him. His own hands dug into Nathaniel's shoulders, fingers digging into the leather armour the rogue was still wearing.

" _Nate..._ " he groaned, and felt as much as heard the low, satisfied sound the other man made. Teeth nipped at the curve of his shoulder again, then at the edge of his jaw, then lips were pressed to his, an invasive kiss, as invasive as what the fingers down below were doing, and as maddening.

Hands shifted, abandoning him for a moment, drawing a moan from him as Nathaniel fumbled at the lacings of his own leggings.

"Hold on," Nathaniel murmured, mouth beside his ear now, and then strong hands wrapped around the back of Anders' thighs, and with a sudden jerk yanked him upwards, back skidding a few inches up the wall, holding him wide.

He knew this part. They'd done this before. His arms wrapped around the archer's broad shoulders, legs – no longer supported by the floor anyway – lifting to wrap around leather-clad waist and thighs. As he was lowered down again he felt pressure at his entrance, than a slow breaching, mixed pleasure and pain as the archer invaded him, filling him.

"Bastard," he muttered in Nathaniel's ear, his head pressed against the archer's shoulder now.

A low chuckle. "You _love_ this," Nathaniel told him, then nipped at his ear lobe and began to thrust, slow rolls of his hips that sent shocks of pleasure through Anders as the other man's cock stroked back and forth against just the right spot inside of him, his own cock rubbing back and forth against the hard smooth leather of the rogue's armoured belly

" _Fuck_. Yes," Anders gasped out, arms and legs momentarily tightening hard enough around Nate to make the other man gasp a protest.

They both went quiet after that, apart from moans and groans and an occasional curse as they ground together, there in the darkness, clinging tight to each other, all teasing forgotten.

* * *

**Isabela/Anders – Isabela on Top**

Hands buried in the feathers of his mantle, plump lips pressed to his. Even through layers of clothing he was aware of the pressure of her breasts against his chest. One of her hands dropped down to palm over the bulge hidden under his robes.

"Tell me you're not interested," Isabela said, voice a low growl.

"I'm... not interested..." he managed to gasp out, short of breath from kissing.

"Liar," she said, eyes darkening, then kissed him again, all tongue and teeth, drawing a groan from him.

She released him suddenly, stepped back, heated brown eyes meeting his. "Your choice. Come to my room. Or not," she said, and turned and walked away.

Anders leaned heavily back against the wall, watching the bewitching way her buttocks rolled back and forth under the barely adequate cover of her long white shirt as she left. He lifted one hand, wiped the back of it over his chin and lips. It came away wet with their mingled saliva. Then he cursed and straightened up and followed her, away down the hallway and into her room.

As soon as the door closed, she was on him again, hands pulling his head down to meet hers in another lengthy kiss. She moaned approvingly into his mouth as his own hands rose to cup her breasts. Somehow she got the two of them into motion, guiding him with just the pressure of her hands around his head to turn and back over to his bed, until the edge of it pressed against the back of his legs. Her hands shifted, down to his shoulders, and she pushed, making him fall backwards onto the bed with a startled cry. She swarmed up onto it to crouch over him, her fingers already busy with his buckles before he'd even recovered from the unexpected fall.

She was efficient, he'd give her that; she had his robes undone and folded back and her own shirt pulled off and tossed aside by the time he'd recovered from his startlement. Any protest he might have made died as she leaned down to kiss him again, her hands pushing down on his shoulders, pinning him to the bed.

There was something almost unbearably sexy about being pushed down by a woman wearing nothing but thigh-high leather boots, he thought muzzily, right before he pretty much _stopped_ thinking. At least about anything but the way her hands explored him, the soft warm flesh his own fingers were reaching to touch. Not so soft in some places, the darkened tips of her breasts hardening against his palms, drawing a pleased moan from both of them.

More kisses after that, only a few of them on lips, and a single brief moment of panic when his hands were yanked unceremoniously up over his head, pressed hard into the bedding. But it passed as quickly as it came, as she held his wrists down with one hand and reached down to stroke him with the other, her lips busy again at the base of his throat, tongue lapping warm and wet over the dip of skin where collarbones met, tracing where skin stretched taut over bone beneath. This was play, not peril; nothing held him there outstretched under her attentions but his own cooperation.

She plundered him, like the pirate she was, lowering herself down onto him and riding him hard, taking her own pleasure from him even as she gifted him with pleasure of his own. And after they'd each come to their own shuddering climax, and cleaned off and curled up together, she was all softness and smiles, weaving her fingers into his as she cuddled up against him.

"Thank you," he said, softly.

She smiled, looking pleased with herself. "We both needed that," she said smugly, and snuggled closer.

* * *

**Fenris/Anders – Rules**

"No biting," Fenris said warningly as Anders nipped along the curve of his shoulder.

"No tearing my heart from my chest," Anders retorted, before sinking his teeth momentarily harder against the skin over Fenris' collarbone, not a real bite, just hard enough to make it clear that he _could_ have bitten.

It drew a gasp and a hiss from the elf, then he pushed Anders hard against the wall, growling as he buried his face in the gap between collar and throat, licking and nipping in turn at the exposed flesh there. "No filthy _magic_ ," he growled when he was done.

Anders laughed, softly, amused. "Unless you ask me to. No... _ahhh!_... no restraints. As in ropes or scarves or anything like that."

Fenris drew his head back for a moment, gave the mage a thoughtful look. "For me either. No restraints," he agreed, then gasped and jerked as Anders palmed a hand over the bulge in his leggings.

"No _clothes_ ," the elf snapped, clawing at the rings and buckles holding Anders' robes closed. Anders laughed, and for several frantic moments there was silence between them, apart from gasps and groans and an occasional sharp swear word, until they were both bare, dark lean tattooed body pressed warm against paler freckled flesh, hands roaming everywhere.

"No bed?" Anders asked after a while, voice warm with amusement now.

"Not needed," Fenris told him, spinning him around and pressing him face-first against the wall, nudging his feet further apart.

Anders laughed, giddily. "No oil?" he asked after a moment, almost plaintively now.

Fenris paused, then cursed. Anders laughed again, and reached behind himself, turning his hand upright. "Grease spell?" he asked.

A pause. "All right," Fenris agreed, grudgingly. "That's allowed."

No more words after that, just the sounds of them struggling together, gasps and moans, and louder cries. Then, as they slid to the floor together some time afterwards, long limbs still tangled together, a contented sigh, and an amused snort.

* * *

**Fenris/Anders – Fenris Needs To Be In Control**

He shouldn't have visited the warrior. Not with the high feelings – all right, _hatred_ – that existed between them. But Hawke had chosen that pompous prick from the chantry over him, and somehow in the aftermath of getting outrageously drunk over that, it had seemed a _good_ idea to go and drop in on the elf. They'd both lost her now, after all, and he'd wanted to rub Fenris' nose in that fact; because even if it stung like a misdirected lightning spell that she'd not wanted _him_ , at least the damned elf didn't have her either.

The elf was drunk. Drunker even than Anders was, and angrier too; shouting and screaming, throwing things against the wall – wine bottles both empty and full, a chair that shattered into kindling, a book, its leaves fluttering as it dropped to the floor, torn pages soaking up the blood-red wine.

He should have turned and left as soon as he realized what a state the elf was in; dangerous, to himself and to anyone incautious enough to approach him in his rage. But he was leaving bloody footprints all over the floor, from where he'd walked on the broken glass left from smashed bottles, and the pain of _that_ drew Anders into the room, even as the elf's more obvious emotional pain urged him to flee.

Fenris tried to fight him, at first, and he could only be muzzily thankful that the elf was, for once, so far gone in drink as to not have proper control over himself; his lyrium lines flickered fitfully, his punches failed to connect, and then he stumbled and fell to the floor, crying out as broken glass pierced his hands as well. Anders got a fist knotted in the neck of Fenris' jerkin and dragged him away from the mess, over to a clear patch of floor near the bed, where moonlight streaming in through the broken ceiling cast a pool of light on the floor.

Somehow he ended up sitting there, back against the side of the bed, with a lap full of keening, crying, snarling and occasionally struggling elf as he picked shards and splinters out of torn hands and shredded feet.

"Damn it, Fenris, I'm trying _help_ you," he snapped out, more than half-sober now himself from the adrenaline of the past few minutes, as the elf suddenly snatched a still-bleeding hand free and tried to claw at his face. Anders fended him off, but not without first gaining a set of stinging scratches across the side of his face. He slapped at the elf in his anger over that.

A bad move. Several frantic moments of struggle later found him pinned on his back, the elf straddling him, hands pinning his wrists to the floor over his head, Fenris snarling something threatening in Arcanum. That touched on more than a few old fears of his own, and he heaved and struggled to get free, fighting off panic at finding himself restrained, the elf shifting position to hold him down more firmly, keeping him trapped. Hands tightened on his wrists, bruisingly hard; he could feel a missed shard of glass digging into his own flesh. Feel, too, Justice beginning to stir in the back of his head, disturbed and summoned by the mage's panicked fear.

He forced himself to still, to take several long shuddering breaths of air, fighting back the fear, frantically thinking calming thoughts at Justice, urging him back, begging him to not interfere. Hawke would never forgive them if they truly hurt each other, he knew.

The elf had stilled as well, his face bent low, shadowed by the fall of his hair and back-lit by the moonlight. If not for the light of his markings his face would have been in darkness. Instead it was eerily lit by the reflected blue glow, his eyes dark and mysterious, showing as just a faint glitter as he gazed down at Anders, the faintest of frowns creasing his forehead.

Then he lowered his head, and nipped at the mage's chin.

Anders gasped, his breathing stuttered for a moment. He flushed, conscious for the first time of how tightly their groins were pressed together, of the heat and pressure there. Felt stunned as Fenris tentatively rolled his hips, hissing as his cock twitched in reaction to the pressure and friction.

Teeth, nibbling teasingly along the line of his jaw, worrying at his ear lobe. One wrist was released, the hand that had trapped it moving to cup against his wounded cheek instead, strong fingers caressing the welted flesh. He shivered, then turned his head enough to nuzzle at the torn palm, press a kiss to it, then jerked back and cursed as broken glass sliced into his lip. He snatched his other hand free from Fenris' hold, and took the elf's hand in both of his, tilting it to the light and carefully removing the remaining shard, tossing it aside before healing the bleeding gashes.

Fenris said nothing, just lay there on top of him, permitting it. Anders gave him a nervous look. "Other hand," he said, releasing the first, and Fenris offered the other, surprisingly passive now, watching quietly as the mage finished cleaning and healing it as well.

And then strong hands were cupping the mage's face, warm lips pressing against his, testing, almost teasing. At the end of it a tongue tip flicked out to taste the drop of blood welling from where the glass had cut him, to gently lick his skin clean of the small smear of blood.

"Heal that," Fenris growled, withdrawing a moment, lifting his head, taking most of his weight on his own hands, though his groin and the erection there still pressed firmly against Anders' own.

Anders did, the lip and the cheek both, watching Fenris warily as he did so.

An almost convulsive shudder shook the elf for a moment. "Go now, or stay... but if you stay, you do what _I_ say," the elf said, voice a low, almost threatening sound.

He swallowed. He should have gone, he shouldn't stay... but what was another _shouldn't_ , in the long chain of them already tonight?

"I'll stay," he whispered.

* * *

**Anders/Carver/Isabela – Very, Very Drunk**

He had a templar and a pirate in his bed. Which wouldn't have been so bad, except the bed was nothing more than a few cots pushed together in the middle of the locked clinic. It was layered with worn old blankets and stained sheets from all the others as padding, the construction creaking alarmingly every time they moved.

Isabela laughed as the platform gave a particularly alarming lurch, then rolled off to kneel on the floor beside in, resting her chin on forearms folded on the edge. "Better lighten the load," she said, and smiled. "I'll just watch for now."

He might have protested, except Carver's teeth mouth closed on his nipple just then, teeth gently worrying at it, tip of his tongue pressing hard against it. Anders moaned and twined his hands into Carver's hair, yanking fitfully at it, drawing a growl from the other man.

Carver squirmed free of his grasp after a few minutes, lifting his head to give Anders a smouldering look. Anders shivered at the intensity of the emotion in his eyes – lust, and an edge of anger, and more than a little fear. He hadn't wanted to come with them, Anders recalled; they'd had to practically drag him all the way from the Hanged Man, protesting drunkenly that they'd grabbed the wrong Hawke.

"No, pumpkin – you're the one we want," Isabela had insisted, pushing Carver back against a wall and giving him a kiss and accompanying groping that made it very clear to Carver – and to several passing sailors – just what her intentions towards him were. The sailors had hooted and whistled, and Carver had turned bright red, even his ears flushing, then given in and allowed them to bring him here, likely more to escape further public embarrassment than any real belief in their words.

He was still clearly uncertain that this wasn't just some elaborate joke the two were playing on him. Anders couldn't help smiling, and reached out to gently push sweat-soaked black locks back from the younger man's face. "You are so beautiful," he whispered, his smile broadening as Carver flushed again, in anger and disbelief.

"Show him you mean it," Isabela suggested, as she made a long arm to snag an opened bottle left standing nearby, then took a swig from it.

So Anders did, sitting up and pulling Carver closer, threading his hands into his hair – gently, this time – and kissing him. On the cheeks, to start, then the lips, letting his eyes drift closed as he concentrated on the contact between them. Teasing kisses at first, soft and brief, then longer ones, until Carver began to relax at last. He took immediate advantage of the softening of Carver's lips, sucking the templar's lower lip in between his own, nipping gently at it before releasing it again. The next kiss was a longer, lingering one, and the one after that went deeper. He teased Carver's tongue with his own, let his own mouth gape invitingly open, and hummed in pleasure and approval as Carver hesitantly tasted his mouth in turn. He slowly let himself lay back down again, Carver following him to lie draped over him, their mouths still in contact as they exchanged kiss after kiss after kiss, hesitation on Carver's part turning to exploration and slowly increasing confidence in what he was doing.

"My turn," Isabela said softly, from right beside Anders' ear, and he released Carver's hair and moved his own head out of the way, letting her take over kissing the young man. He slid a little to one side, guiding Carver to move off of him, then to roll over onto his back, Isabela lying half-on, half-off the bed. She kept kissing Carver, one hand tangled in his hair now, the other exploring his neck and upper chest, little fluttery touches and occasional firmer ones. Anders leaned down, kissing and licking at one of Carver's nipples, while Isabela's finger traced slow circles around the other one.

Carver moaned, body finally relaxing, passively lying there and accepting Isabela's kisses and both their caresses. Anders shared a brief, knowing smile with her, then began working his way down Carver's body, lips and tongue exploring the hard planes of the templar's chest and belly, fingers stroking the sensitive flesh where thigh met torso, then down between Carver's legs. His cock was rigidly erect by the time Anders had worked his way that low, as erect as the mage's own.

Carver tensed and gave a startled cry as Anders took the tip of it between his lips, tonguing at the slit in the end. He twitched, as if about to try and struggle free of them, but Isabela still had a hold of his head, and Anders' hands were holding his thighs down, firmly enough to make it clear he was meant to remain there. He cried out again as Anders took his cock in a little deeper, letting his tongue circle the edge of its head.

"Oh, _yes_ ," Isabela crooned. Anders tilted his head enough to look back up Carver's body, and saw she'd stopped kissing him in order to lift her head and watch what Anders was doing. She tugged on Carver's hair, making him lift his head and look too. "Doesn't that look wonderful?" she asked the templar.

Carver's eyes were wide and surprised. He shuddered, hands tightening on the sheets, and Anders could _feel_ it as he hardened further. He champed his jaws lightly for a moment, drawing another cry from the man, then glanced at Isabela, one eyebrow raising just slightly. She moved to kneel behind Carver, pulling him backwards a bit so he was leaning against her.

"Let's watch," she murmured in Carver's ears, her arms wrapping around him from behind, one hand sliding down to rest on his belly, the other cupping over one of his nipples, rubbing teasingly at it. "I'll tell him what to do, and you just enjoy, pumpkin. All right?"

Carver hesitated, then nodded, his eyes never leaving Anders' face.

Anders smiled, then lowered his head to his work.

* * *

**Anders/Sigrun – Curious, yet?**

Sharing a bed with a dwarf was far from the worst thing he'd ever done, Anders quickly decided. Even – or perhaps especially – a dwarf as full of questions, curiosity, and random enthusiasms as Sigrun often seemed to be.

"It looks just like a dwarf one," she told him as she wrapped both her hands around him, and tugged lightly. "Only longer, and not as thick."

He made an inarticulate sound, at first, the actions of her hands on him making it impossible to speak real words for a few intensely interesting moments. "Told you... we're all built more or less the same," he said, and stopped to pant for breath. "Evening at any half-decent brothel would prove _that_ to anyone."

She made a dismissive sniffing sound. "Why go to a brothel when I have friends?" she asked, then lowered her head and did things with her mouth and fingers that had him shouting in surprised pleasure, toes curling hard into the disordered sheets. "Well, _that_ certainly works the same," she said cheerfully when she stopped a little time later, grinning up at him.

He could only whimper at first, hard and wanting and _why had she stopped_... "Maker, Sigrun, where did you learn to do that!" he exclaimed.

She grinned, an expression that did interestingly adorable things to her tattoos, he noted. "In the Legion. It wasn't _all_ darkspawn and death, you know," she said.

Satisfying her curiosity proved to be a very long and intense night for both of them.

* * *

**Zevran/Anders**

"In here." A whisper out of the darkness, a hand reaching out of an open doorway, palm up and fingers just slightly crooked, invitingly.

Anders stared, startled. "What..."

"Or do I misjudge your interest?"

That _voice_ – that accent. The commander's elven friend, the assassin.

The fingers curled partially closed, the hand withdrawing slightly. An offer being withdrawn, he realized, and before he could stop himself stumbled the step closer necessary to take the hand in his own.

A pleased chuckle, then the hand drew him into the darkened room, the door shutting almost silently behind him. He felt his hand being raised, warm lips ghosting a soft kiss over his knuckles, with just the slightest suggestion of tongue.

"Why...?" he stuttered, nervous and titillated, and more than a little frightened, as his hand was released.

"Why not? You and I... we share certain interests, do we not?"

He shivered, that low voice doing _things_ to him. By the sound of it, the elf was circling around, moving from in front of him to in back.

Hands came to rest on his shoulders, stroking the feathers there smooth, the steady pressure noticeable even through the thickness of them. A warm body pressed up against his back, a kiss tickled the back of his neck. Arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers closed on the chain clasp at his throat.

"May I?" Warm breath gusting against his nape and one ear, making him shiver again.

"Yes," he managed to say. A _yes_ to more than just the clasp being undone.

Clothes were removed, piece by piece, sure-handedly; the elf knew how mage robes went on, and how they came off. Hardly surprising, perhaps. Knew, too, where skin would be bared by each removal; hands reaching to touch, to caress, lips to kiss, tongue to lick, teeth to nip.

He'd thought _he_ was good at seduction – this elf was better, sending his senses spinning with little more than darkness and the slight fear it invoked, and the unpredictable touches that came and went out of it. He could smell the elf; a whiff of leather, and some spicy fragrance, warm and alluring. And just the slightest hint of male musk, of the elf's own arousal as he undressed and handled the mage.

Arms closed around him again, from the front this time, before hands reached to cup his head and pull him down into a kiss, warm and wet and tasting faintly of brandy. He could feel the pressure of the elf's erection against his own thigh as his hands settled on Zevran's waist and drew him closer. The assassin made an approving sound, hand reaching to pull the tie out of Anders' hair, then fingers carded through it.

Two could play at that game, though dealing with undoing the thin braids of the elf was not as easily nor as quickly accomplished. But _fast_ was not an issue here, not when slow gave plenty of opportunity for more kissing, for nibbling of jawlines, for licking of ears, an action that drew a moan from the elf and had them both pressing harder together, rubbing up against each other before the elf moved away again.

Anders yelped as a hand closed around him, a feather-light grip, then moaned as the hand moved, a careful slow stroking. The elf laughed softly at that, then yelped and started as Anders found him again in the darkness and bit lightly on the tip of one long pointed ear. It became like a hunt after that, each seeking out and testing or teasing the sensitive points of the others; kisses on throats, nibbles along collarbones, licks at nipples, fingers tickling or stroking along sides, stomachs, cocks, the sensitive flesh between hip and belly or in back of balls.

At some point they reached a bed, and that was even better, rolling around on it, gasps and moans and short cries of surprise or pleasure or sometimes pain. Laughter, too, his own and the elf's, as Zevran tickled his too-sensitive ribs and reduced him to squirming breathlessness. He retaliated with his best trick, magic sparking between fingertips, drawing a surprised cry and then low moans and shivers from the elf.

He watched his magic-lit hands moving over soft skin, marked here and there with tattoos and scars. A knife wound, where a blade had stabbed into the elf. A sword slash, ragged edge and pale with age. Marks of a whipping, which woke sour memories of his own and made him still, the glow fading from his fingers.

Hands closed around his, drew him close. Lips kissed him tenderly, hands stroking soothingly down his back, not shying from the scarred flesh there. The brief sorrow passed; the heat between them returned.

A hand pressing in the small of his back, another resting on his thigh, a mouth on his cock. He cried out, as the elf took him down deep, throat muscles working around him as the assassin swallowed, and swallowed again. He knotted his hands in the spill of loose hair, shaking with the effort not to thrust into that warmly welcoming mouth. Sparks behind his closed lids like the sparks that had earlier wrapped his hands, flashes of light as he cried out and came.

And it was only a beginning.

"I do appreciate Grey Warden stamina," purred in his ear some time much later, one slim-fingered hand wrapped around his cock, stroking it in time to the elf's thrusts, fingers in his mouth partially muffling his cries of pleasure.

There is light in the room before it finally ends, grey light of pre-dawn leaking around closed drapes, just enough to limn the elf as he rises from the bed, naked and glorious, hair a tangled mess, skin glistening with smears of oil, marked with spatters of seed.

"Magnificent," the assassin said quietly, the word barely louder than a drawn breath. A final kiss, a hand smoothing back his sweat-soaked hair, and then the elf was gone, and so was he, slipping down into pleasantly exhausted darkness.

* * *

**Anders – Pounce and/or Dog, Interupting**

Fingers scratching behind one pointed ear, a hand stroking down a smoothly muscled back, drawing an appreciative purr.

"I could lie here while you did that all night long," a sleepy voice said, from where Anya's head was half-tucked under her folded arm.

Anders grinned, and leaned down to press a kiss to her shoulder. "I can think of even better things to do," he said.

Anya flipped over on her back, and smiled up at him, one eyebrow arching high over vivid sapphire eyes. "Oh? Such as?" she asked.

"Well," he said, and bent down to press a kiss to the side of her neck, then the dip at the base of it, then lower yet. "This?" he asked softly, then licked a line down her front, blowing his breath over it softly before licking a second one, lower yet.

Anya made an approving sound, almost a growl, as his tongue circled the dip of her belly button. Her legs lifted and spread as his tongue slowly traced a pathway further down, tongue teasing at her skin, fingers already gently parting velvety folds. She sighed and moaned softly as his tongue dipped lower yet, tracing the sensitive inner folds, her hands coming to rest on his hair, petting at it as he licked and lapped.

A deeper moan, as long fingers pressed gently against slick skin, then more firmly, slipping slowly inside her. Her fingers knotted into his hair now, feet pressing hard against the mattress as she lifted her hips just slightly, angling to open herself more fully to questing fingers and licking tongue.

A sudden angry shriek, a pained yelp, an outcry from Anders as sharp claws dug into the flesh of his back, his flinch backwards almost sending him off the edge of the bed.

Anya was laughing by the time he regained his balance, but not his composure, red with both annoyance and embarrassment.

"Boisvert! I told you to leave Ser Pounce-A-Lot alone!" she scolded her mabari.

Boisvert whined and lowered his head, giving Anya a shame-faced look from under lowered orange eyebrows. She laughed, then crooked her fingers. "Come here, you, let me see what the big mean kitty did to your poor nose," she cooed.

"How about what he did to my poor back?" Anders asked, wincing as he reached back and fingered the deep scratches there, making a face when his fingers came away bloody. He glared equally at both dog and cat, Pounce having taken refuge on top of clothes press nearby, where he was sitting cleaning his claws.

The mood was rather spoiled, at least for that night, Anders judged, as he healed his back and then, at Anya's insistence, healed Boisvert's nose. But there would be other nights, he was sure, as he curled up with the elf in his arms. Hopefully _without_ their pets on hand.

* * *

**Seneschal Bran, Leandra Amell Hawke – What A Pleasant Vacation**

"I'm surprised to see you here, Lady Amell," Seneschal Bran said, bowing low to the well-dressed older woman. And he was surprised – he hadn't thought to see anyone from Kirkwall here in Hercinia, it being rather off the beaten path as far as vacation spots went. He loved it for its quietness, the quaint seafront promenade, and the beauty of the surrounding orchard- and vineyard-covered hills.

"Lady Amell-Hawke," she corrected him.

He smiled and nodded, conceding the point, though in his heart of hearts he felt that nothing more than 'Serah Hawke' was actually due the woman. Still, her son was a rising star in the city these days – it wouldn't do to antagonize the man, nor any of his family.

"And who is your charming companion?" Leandra asked, smiling pleasantly at the woman on his arm.

"My apologies," Bran said, bowing slightly to her. "This is my good friend, Serendipity."

"A pleasure to meet you, Serendipity," Leandra said, nodding her head politely to the elf.

"A pleasure to meet you as well," Serendipity said, her low voice warm and just slightly stiff; she'd never much cared for nobility.

Bran coughed into his hand to hide his amusement at the startled look that briefly crossed Leandra's face, and schooled himself not to show any dislike of the sharper look she gave his companion. He was, however, pleasantly surprised when Leandra recovered quickly and neither fled nor began either staring at or ignoring his friend, as so often happened – one of the primary reasons they were vacationing in such a little-known spot, truth be told.

"That's a charming dress," Leandra said, looking it over with a knowledgeable eye. "Orlesian work?"

"Almost," Serendipity said. "The seamstress was trained in Val Royeaux, but she lives and works in Kirkwall now. Considerably cheaper than imports, and so much easier to deal with if one wants custom work done."

"Really?" Leandra said, looking interested. "I may have to ask you to introduce me to her when we're both back home, if it wouldn't be too much of an imposition. The embroidered detail is very fine – and such a striking pattern!"

Serendipity looked inordinately pleased. "My own design," she admitted.

" _Really_ ," Leandra said again, and the two were soon involved in a deep discussion of needlework, fabrics, colours, patterns and styles that left Bran's head swimming. It was nearly ten minutes later before the two of them finally broke off, Leandra giving Serendipity one of her calling cards and urging her to visit her some time back in Kirkwall before continuing on her way.

The Seneschal's parting words with Leandra were much warmer than his greeting had been; Serendipity was looking very pleased over her talk with Leandra, and anyone who not only accepted her but made her happy made _him_ happy as well. Perhaps he'd have to rethink his opinion on Hawke. Or at least on Lady Amell-Hawke.

* * *

**Sigrun/Anders – Night Out In Amaranthine**

They'd snuck out of the inn together, after the rest of the wardens had gone to bed. Anders had promised to show her Amaranthine by night, and he was determined to keep his promise. Even if it did mean keeping a sharp look out for city guards and random templars.

He loved the awed look on Sigrun's face, as she took in the place, and the delight with which she greeted each new sight, each new experience. They dawdled for a while in the marketplace, Sigrun oohing and aahing over the goods on display there in a way that utterly charmed more than one hardened merchant, happily spending her pocket money on fripperies and geegaws, little gifts for herself and for all her friends.

"Here, try this," he told her, guiding her to a baker's stall, and she spent almost a quarter of her coin on an assortment of cookies, and squares of spicy-smelling gingerbread, and a bag of sweet sticky rolls, drenched in honey and rolled in chopped nuts. They sat on the edge of one of the town fountains, talking, and eating the rolls, and getting stickiness all over their fingers and faces. Removing the stickiness was even more fun, involving lots of licking of lips and sucking of fingers – their own at first – and an exchange of amused looks, and then kissing the last tasty smears of sweetness off each other's cheeks and chin, sucking each other's fingers clean, followed by a quick rinse in the fountain before they regretfully moved on again.

They snuck up to the walkway that circled the inside of the walls, carefully avoiding the patrolling guards, and found a perch – a projecting bit of roof, an easy drop down from the walkway itself – on which to sit, and just admire the lamp-lit city spread out below them. They stayed there for almost an hour, just cuddled up against each other, exchanging kisses and sometimes pointing out things down below to each other, until a guard spotted finally them and chased them away, the two of them laughing as they fled

They went back to the inn after that, parting regretfully in the hall outside their rooms – rooms shared with others, unfortunately – with a grin from Sigrun, and a smile from Anders, a final kiss, and a promise to sneak off together again another night.


	35. Ask Box Ficlets 26 - Alistair Porn Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand Tumblr people decided this week was going to be Alistair Porn Week. And then _next_ week is lined up to be ditto for Fenris. So, yeah... expect more prompt fills. :)

**Warden!Alistair/Warden!Bethany**

"I remember Lothering," he said in surprise, hearing where she was from.

"You've been there?" she asked, equally surprised.

"I was there, a few times," he said, and took a seat nearby, and they talked about that over their lunch.

He'd passed through a time or three in childhood, on the way from Redcliffe to Denerim and back again; not enough to know the people there, but to know the sights, the nearby places. She remembered the army and the Grey Wardens passing through on their way south, seen in hiding from a tree not far from the south-bound road. He remembered afterwards; the crowded refugees, the fear of the approaching darkspawn. Leaving there, knowing the people were in danger but being unable to do anything, really, to help. She remembered leaving; the town destroyed, the countryside burnt and blighted, crawling with darkspawn. Her brother's death.

"Ogres," Alistair said, scowling. "I always hated those. A hard fight, they're so much faster than you'd think, from their size."

She nodded. Lunch was long over, but she had a pretty smile, and he kept finding things to talk about.

"You're an ex-templar?" she asked apprehensively, some days later, as they strolled along the battlements together.

"Ex- _almost_ -templar," he corrected, and smiled. "And you're a mage. So's the Warden-Commander, you may have noticed. We've had a few of them. And killed a few of the evil-blood-magey abomination kind over the years, too, but I'm _pretty_ sure I know the difference between one of those and a Grey Warden."

He liked her smiles and her kindness, and her restful silences as she considered answers to his questions, some of them verging on intrusive. She liked his enthusiasm and his bashfulness, so odd to see in a man grown, and the way he blushed and stammered after he'd asked a question without first thinking of whether or not it might be impertinent.

She was surprised by how effortlessly he worked along side a mage, until she remember who the Warden-Commander was, and how long they'd worked together. He was surprised how well she worked alongside a warrior, until he found out who her sister was. They meshed very well, in battle.

They meshed very well elsewhere too, they discovered in time, in her bed. She'd thought he might be an innocent in bed, but there was a difference between _innocent_ and _inexperienced_.

"I've been around Zevran for the last half-dozen years," he pointed out, smiling in amusement as his fingers did extremely interesting things, down between her legs. "He tells me things. Sometimes things I'm not entirely sure I want to know," he added, then slid down her body, lips and tongue hot and wet against her skin, to demonstrate one of those things.

"I think I'm glad he told me about that one," he said, some time later, startling a laugh out of her.

"I think I'm glad too," she told him, and wrapped her hands around his head, pulling him back up her body so she could kiss him quite thoroughly. "Let me show you how glad I am."

"Gladly," Alistair mumbled against her lips, more than a little smugly, smiling as she laughed again.

* * *

**Alistair – Embarrassing Tubers**

Alistair felt good; very good; more good – better good? – than he would have imagined feeling before Brosca had given him _that look_ back at the Pearl and dragged him off to visit the pirate for a tour of her boat. Ship. Floaty-thing. Sea-side sex palace was perhaps the most accurate description, at least judging by his adventures of the night before. He smiled, eyes still closed, reviewing some of the highlights of the night before.

He could hear faint voices and giggling somewhere nearby, Brosca's low husky tones and the pirate- Isabela's – higher, more cultured-sounding purr of a voice. Girl-talk, he guessed, and hugged the pillow he was wrapped around, sighing happily and squirming into a slightly more comfortable position. Maybe once they'd taken care of the archdemon they could turn pirate, he mused. A life on the ocean wave with Isabela didn't sound at all like a bad idea at the moment.

It was the sudden silence that warned him, that made him lift his head and look round, catching the thoroughly evil look in the two women's eyes as they snuck up on him, and the object held in Isabela's shapely hands. He dove out of bed with a yelp, wrapping his pillow around of much of his nether regions as he could as he backed up against the wall.

"I don't care what it's shaped like," he exclaimed. "That is _not_ where a potato goes!"

* * *

**Fenris/Alistair – Extra Cheese, The B Side**

_This is definitely_ not _canon to "Extra Cheese on Top", but if those particular Fenris/Alistair variants ever had a smutty interlude that didn't include Isabela, it likely would have come about something like this._

It started like any morning, waking up in bed spooned together with Alistair, the larger man a comforting presence at his back. His arm was draped over Fenris' waist, soft snores stirring the hair at the nape of Fenris' neck. The elf was in no hurry to get up, so he just lay there, enjoying the close presence of the other man.

A faint smile curved his lips as he thought about how much his life had changed since tripping over Alistair lying injured in a Lowtown gutter the previous fall; the strong friendship that had grown between them over the winter, the increased confidence that had led to him finally accepting Isabela's offer of sex. The recent death of Danarius, finally freeing Fenris of the worst of his fears of recapture and a return to slavery.

Alistair, too, had changed, sobering up and finding work, recovering from his grief over the death of Laurel Amell, the Hero of Ferelden and once Alistair's closest friend before the two men had parted in disagreement and anger. Anger from Alistair's side alone; according to Zevran, another friend of Alistair's who had briefly visited, Laurel had felt only regret that Alistair had left, and relief that it took his friend out of danger. Alistair helped enormously in the recent fight that had ended with Danarius' death, his templar ability to drain mages of magic having been one of the deciding factors of the battle. And he, too, had overcome his shyness enough to accept Isabela's offer of sex.

Alistair stirred and muttered, arm tightening around Fenris for a moment, tugging him closer. Fenris felt a momentary embarrassment, feeling pressure against his back that was more than just Alistair's stomach or thigh. Alistair yawned, and stretched, rolling a little away from the elf. "Isabela left already?" he asked, voice thick with sleep, then yawned a second time, rolling back into his previous position.

"It would appear so," Fenris answered, feeling his face and ears heat a little at the memory of the previous night. Sex with Isabela was always good; on the rare occasions where she decided to take on both Alistair and himself at the same time, it was even better, and the previous night she'd been particularly... insatiable. He felt himself hardening slightly at the memory of her between the two of them, and later, when he was too exhausted to continue, lying and watching as she did her best to exhaust Alistair, whose Grey Warden stamina gave him unusual endurance in more physical pursuits than just fighting.

Alistair's thoughts must have gone off down a similar path, judging by the increased pressure against his backside. A pressure that would have repulsed him, from any other man, but which in Alistair's case he was able to ignore, knowing that the other man had no real desires in that particular direction. It was merely physical reaction... as was his own increasing hardness, responding inevitably to both that pressure and the lingering scent of sex from the night before.

"Oh... _Maker_ , sorry Fenris," Alistair exclaimed, becoming aware of his own state and hastily rolling away from the elf.

His reaction drew an amused snort from Fenris, and he rolled over to look at Alistair, smile deepening at the sight of Alistair's embarrassed flush. "There is nothing to be sorry about," he told him. "You are not the only one whose anatomy is expressing a wish that Isabela had remained."

Alistair glanced over at him, eyes flicking inexorably downward, then the man very quickly looked away, fixing his gaze on the stained and cracked ceiling overhead, which only amused Fenris further. "Well, this is embarrassing," Alistair said, but then he suddenly smiled crookedly, his own sense of humour clearly getting the better of him. "I think I've spotted the tragic flaw in our sharing a bed platonically. What to do when you or I suddenly find ourselves with a strong need to rub one out."

Fenris laughed. "I suspect just trying to ignore each other's presence wouldn't work very well," he agreed as solemnly as he could manage. "Though I have to admit I'm surprised you're even able to, ahhh... obtain the necessary state, given how thoroughly the pirate ravaged you last night."

Alistair groaned and reddened, lifting his hands to cover his face, even his ears flushing in his embarrassment. "That's not _helping_ ," he pointed out in a sing-song voice.

Fenris smirked. "Sorry," he said, and found his own eyes flicking over to a particularly outstanding area of Alistair's anatomy. The man was almost fully erect, cock jutting up in the air, tip beading with moisture. A definite whiff of male musk was noticeable, and given how strongly that smell was associated with particularly exciting activities, Fenris found himself hardening even further in response. He hastily rolled over on his stomach, biting back any sound as the movement trapped his own aching erection in between his stomach and the bedsheets. He should have rolled over in the other direction he realized belatedly; he'd turned toward Alistair, not away, and their sides were now in contact.

Alistair lowered his hands enough to peer over his fingers at Fenris. "Not. _Helping!_ " he repeated, voice muffled by his cupped hands.

Fenris laughed again, dropping his head to the sheets to hide his own embarrassment for a moment, then turned his head sideways, smiling crookedly at Alistair. "Well. There are one or two obvious solutions to our mutual problem. A dose of cold water being one possibility. Or, ahh..." he paused, and could feel his own blush deepening. "Or helping each other with the problem."

Alistair's head whipped around, and the other man went very still for a moment, staring at him. "Do you actually _want_... that?" he finally asked, voice squeaking with disbelief.

Fenris frowned slightly, considering his answer seriously. "Let us say that with as great a trust as there already is between you and I... that it would not disturb me if we, if... umm... if we touched each other in ways I normally wouldn't welcome," he said, and paused, flushing deeply and surprised by how difficult it suddenly was to continue. "I don't desire to use or be used, and I know your interests don't run that way either, but touching... we already touch, sometimes, when Isabela is with us. And I trust you."

Alistair continued to just stare at him. For a frightening moment he wondered if the other man might find his words distasteful, and then Alistair's expression softened. "I'm honoured," he said quietly.

They studied each other's faces for a long moment. Finally, Fenris allowed a very small smile to lift his lips. "Or there's still the cold water option."

Alistair laughed, then rolled over to face Fenris. He was flushed with embarrassment still, but smiling. "We can try touching first," he said. "Cold water is far from my favourite way to deal with such an issue."

Fenris' smile deepened. "Nor mine," he agreed.

"So, err... what do we do?" Alistair asked Fenris hesitantly.

"Whatever seems good to both of us," Fenris answered, then rolled over on his side as well, so that the two were lying on the bed facing each other, just a small gap between them. Fenris swallowed nervously, then slowly reached out and set his hand against Alistair's chest.

They were both nervous at first, hesitant, hands reaching out to touch gently, then moving away again. Light brushes against sides, shoulders, chests. Brief toying with more sensitive areas, fingers sliding over hardening nipples or stroking up throats, tracing along the edges of ears, or down to the ticklish flesh of their sides and stomachs. Alistair was particularly fascinated by Fenris' lyrium lines, tracing their paths with a light touch, eyes widening in awe at the subtle glow that followed the path of his hand.

As their confidence increased, seeing each other respond to their touches, hearing the sounds of surprise or encouragement each made, they grew bolder. Alistair slowly leaned in for a kiss; Fenris allowed it, a long slow exploration of lips and tongues, while his own hand slowly slid lower, from Alistair's broad chest down to his stomach, then lower yet, both of them pausing at Alistair's sudden inhalation as Fenris' fingers brushed against his rigid length for the first time. Alistair's own hand slid down then, pausing just shy of its goal while he looked into Fenris' eyes, making sure the elf was still fine with what was happening before finally moving to close around him, drawing a stifled cry and a slight arching of his back from the elf.

More kisses, then, while their hands were busy exploring the shape of each other, the length and girth and heft, the differing textures. Little gasps from each when the other did something particularly interesting. Louder cries, as they handled each other with more assurance, Fenris on his back now, the glow of his lines reflecting off the sweat-streaked skin of the man curled over him, carefully keeping his weight on his knees and one bent arm rather than on the elf.

Fenris smiled, as he nudged Alistair a little lower with a hand on his hip, bringing their erections into contact, then reached between them, guiding Alistair into wrapping his hand around both of them. He closed his own hands around their tips, jutting out from Alistair's loose fist, letting his thumbs brush teasingly over their tips before giving a slow roll of his hips. Alistair cried out in surprised pleasure at the feel of them rubbing together, and soon started moving as well, catching on quickly.

The bed creaked from their movements, the only other sound their panting breaths and soft cries of pleasure as they slid back and forth against each other within the compass of their hands. Alistair came first, seed spattering out across Fenris' stomach and chest, then held himself up on shaking legs and arm while Fenris continued moving, until the elf gave a low shout and came as well. Only then did Alistair release his grip, and as Fenris' hands moved aside as well, let himself fall to the side, lying down beside Fenris, his arm draped over the elf, ignoring the wetness there while they both caught their breath.

He was smiling, Fenris saw, when Alistair finally lifted his face from the bedding, still reddened and sweaty, but looking very pleased and happy. A feeling the elf shared; that had been a very pleasant interlude, and while what he felt for Alistair was nothing that he'd call _desire_ , he knew that he, at least, would have no objections to doing so again in future.

"Bath?" Alistair asked, voice a little hoarse.

"I think we'd better," Fenris agreed solemnly, then smiled.

* * *

**Alistair/f!Surana – Morrigan's Ritual Refused**

A last hurried, fumbling moment together, in a darkened corner between a crumbling watchtower and a pile of smoke-darkened rubble. Her robes lifted around her waist, back pressed against the rough stone wall, the edges of Alistair's tassets biting bruisingly into her flesh as he pounded frantically into her, neither of them gentle in that moment, feeling only need and want and desperate desire.

She wrapped herself tightly around him, slippered heels locked against armoured buttocks, arms threaded awkwardly over the projections and joints of well-armoured shoulders. She wished it was not cold hard silverite that she clutched herself to, but the warm soft flesh beneath; that it was the smell of his skin that filled her nostrils, not the scent of armour polish and the reek of freshly-killed darkspawn. She cried out as she came, stifling her shout by biting down on her own forearm, hard enough to leave a mark. His own shout a few strokes later was muffled in the soft fabric of her robe.

They cleaned themselves, hurriedly, and straightened their outfits, then slipped back to the gate, where tired soldiers and the rest of their companions were slowly gathering. Decisions to be made, then – decisions by her. She saw the disbelief and hurt in his eyes when she ordered him to stay behind and guard the gate. She did not – could not – tell him why, not without him realizing that this was a fight she did not intend to return from. For a moment – just the briefest of moments – she wished she had told him of Morrigan's offer, rather than refusing the witch completely. That there might be more time for them than this.

But it was better this way, she was sure, though she doubted he would ever agree. She was tired – so very tired – and too many of those she'd loved were already dead, most during Uldred's failed rebellion, others elsewhere. Like poor foolish Jowan, executed at Redcliffe for his part in the events there. She dreamed of him, sometimes, the fright and disbelief on his face, and the emptiness afterwards. Dreamed of Niall, too, lost in the Fade and so terribly brave in his final moments.

But what she most dreamed of was an ending. Of putting down her burden, of seeing her loved ones safe and then ending her pain. She loved Alistair... but love was not enough. Not when he was promised to another now.

As she walked away from him, between the rows of cheering soldiers, she could feel the moistness of his spend still dripping down her leg.

No child for her and him, if that was even possible between two wardens. No child for Morrigan either.

* * *

**Alistair/Zevran – Zevran finds Alistair in Kirkwall at the Hanged Man**

Four years it had taken to find the man. Four years of searching, of paying out what little coin he had for tips and travel, of following leads, more than one of which led him into Crow-set traps. Four years of cursing both Alistair, and the woman who'd made him promise to find the man. Four years of promising himself that he would give up the search the next day, the next week, the next month, the next failed lead.

But here he was at last, sitting in the shadows and watching his quarry. He could feel only contempt and disgust as he watched the man, once a fit and fine warrior, now a drunkard, body gone slack from too little exercise, too much strong drink, and too much cheap food. His disgust only deepened as he watched someone walk over to Alistair's table, lean down, and whisper something in the man's ear. Alistair's face set for a moment, but then the man offered him something and he nodded, smiled affably, and led the other man away, up the stairs and out of sight.

Zevran remained where he was; he had been watching Alistair long enough to be well-aware of what was happening upstairs, not even in a proper room but in a shadowed corner behind a stack of crates and barrels. Alistair, so innocent and naive when he'd known him before, now willingly going down on his knees before anyone who'd pay him enough coin for another bottle. It surprised him how angry it made him feel, seeing the man debase himself so.

Alistair had drunk himself into a near-stupor long before midnight. It was only then that Zevran finally made his move, rising to his feet and crossing the crowded room. He stopped beside the table where the man sat, slumped forward with his head resting on one hand, the other hand idly rolling around his latest dead soldier. Alistair looked up at Zevran's approach, but there was no recognition in his eyes; hardly surprising, given the assassin's current appearance.

Zevran was disguised as an ageing woman, wearing layers of clothing and a faded dress that made him seem thick-waisted and slack-breasted. His skin was carefully made up to hide his distinctive tattoo and give him the appearance of wrinkles and bags, with subtle shading around the nose to make him appear human to a casual examination. A shawl was loosely draped over his head and shoulders to further obscure his true form, and what little could be seen of his hair was carefully dyed and powdered to seem grey-streaked faded brown instead of his normal bright gold.

"Yes?" Alistair asked, voice slurred.

Zevran forced himself not to grimace at the rank smell of sour beer, old sweat, and stale urine that wafted off the man. He drew a couple of silver coins from his purse, showing them to Alistair. "For a night?" he asked.

Alistair squinted at the coin, then shook his head. "Not enough," he said.

Zevran frowned, then returned the silver to his purse and took out a different coin, much smaller but made of gold. "This?" he asked.

Alistair wavered a moment, then looked at his collection of empty bottles and nodded; a gold coin, even one that small, would buy him several such the next night. "Where?" he asked, as he rose unsteadily to his feet.

"I have a room nearby," Zevran said, then turned and walked off; best not to seem too concerned about whether or not Alistair came along. He was both pleased and a little saddened to hear the larger man stumbling along in his wake, more interested in the gold coin than concerned about his own safety.

Once outside of the bar, he quickly led the warrior through a short winding maze of side streets and into the house he had rented for his stay here. It was not much of a place, just a single small room with an even smaller loft overhead, but by the standards of Kirkwall it was a sizable space for just one man to occupy, and the fact that it had a hand-pump and well of its own in one corner made it positively luxurious.

"Sit," he invited Alistair, waving at one of the two chairs beside a small table in one corner of the room, then walked over to the other side of the room and began unwinding his shawl. He'd put out a plate of little spice cookies, a pair of clay cups and the heel of a bottle of brandy before he'd gone out earlier; he wasn't in the least surprised to hear the faint pop of the waxed-leather cork being removed, and liquid being poured into a cup. He hid a smile; drunkards were so predictable in their desires. By the time he'd hung up his shawl and turned back, Alistair was already drinking.

He walked back across the room, coming to a stop by the table, and delicately picked up one of the tiny cookies, popping it into his mouth and making a pleased sound as he chewed and swallowed it. He picked up a second, offering it to Alistair. It took the man two tries to take it from him, then he made an appreciative sound and clumsily took a handful of them from the plate, eating them as if half-starved

Zevran poured some brandy into the empty cup, and topped up Alistair's, then ate another cookie – they were a particular favourite of his – before walking away again. He lit the fire that was laid ready in the small stove, then picked up at pail and began filling it at the pump. One pail of water he poured into a pot and put to warm over the fire, then he dragged a tin washtub out and placed it near the stove, and began pouring pails of water into it.

"Whazzit for? Y'doing laundry?" Alistair asked, sounding puzzled, his voice already significantly more slurred than it had been.

"No," Zevran said as he carried another heavy pail of cold water over, no longer bothering to disguise his voice. "You, my friend, will be having a bath."

Alistair frowned, but between all the alcohol he'd imbibed earlier, and the drug that Zevran had thoughtfully laced the brandy with, he was too muddled to think well. "Bath?" he asked, sounding more than a little confused.

"Yes, a bath. Not to put too fine a point on it, Alistair, but you stink."

Alistair gave him a suspicious look. "Din' tell ya m'name," he said.

"You didn't have to. I know who you are," Zevran said calmly. The water on the stove was warm now. He scooped some into a bowl, carrying it over to the table and setting it down by the other seat, then fetched a lump of soap and several washcloths before settling down in the chair. He began washing the makeup from his face, first wiping off most of it with a wet cloth, then lathering up a second cloth and carefully washing away what remained.

"Zevran!" Alistair gasped as soon as the assassin's tattoo was visible, and tried to rise to his feet, only to sprawl to the floor instead, his limbs no longer obeying his commands. "Wuh... puh...poison!" he stuttered out, thrashing around and looking panicked by his inability to control his movements.

"Be at ease, my friend," Zevran said as he calmly finished cleaning his face and hands. "If I meant you any harm you would already be dead." He rose to his feet, stepping over Alistair, and walked to the far side of the room again, stripping off and putting away his assorted layers of clothing until he was standing in nothing but a pair of knee-length leggings.

Alistair had stopped struggling by then, and was lying on the floor, eyes wide and frightened, panting a little from all the exertion. Zevran walked over, made a face at Alistair's condition, then bent down and began efficiently removing the other man's clothes. Alistair was limp as a rag-doll now, unable to either help or hinder as the assassin stripped him down.

The pot of water was simmering by the time he had Alistair undressed. He poured it carefully into the tub to take the edge off the cold well water, then dragged the man over and hoisted him into the tub, grimacing as water slopped out onto the floor. He fetched the soap and more washcloths, then knelt by the tub and set to washing the man.

Alistair had lost considerable condition since he'd last seen him; his muscles were slack, his complexion pasty, and his hair was both shaggy and greasy. Had it not been for his Grey Warden metabolism he would likely have been running to fat; as it was, he'd succeeded in gaining a small paunch.

"Why'ou doin' this?" Alistair managed to slur out, head resting limply on the rim of the tub as he watched Zevran, looking more puzzled than frightened now.

Zevran didn't pause, just frowned and continued cleaning the man. "Because before she died the Warden made me promise to stay with you long enough to make sure that you were all right," he said, voice clipped and harsh with dislike and distaste. "Though I doubt even she ever imagined that you would run away from Ferelden and then let yourself go this badly."

Alistair flushed, and managed to turn his head away, his whole body twitching with the effort it took to make even that small a movement. Zevran bit back the assortment of harsh things he'd have liked to have said, and merely continued cleansing the man. When he'd washed him from head to toe he moved around behind Alistair, then wet down and began washing his hair, rinsing and washing it a second time before he was satisfied that it was clean.

It was only when he moved back around to where he could see Alistair's face that he realized the man was crying silently, tears spilling from his eyes and streaking down his cheeks, his expression a mask of grief. Zevran sighed, and wrapped his arms around the warrior's shoulders, pulling him into an embrace. Alistair began to really cry then, great gulping sobs and juicy snifflings. Zevran held him and patted his back soothingly until the storm of tears finally ended.

"You are a mess," Zevran said quietly, easing him back into the tub, wetting a washcloth and carefully wiping his face clean again, then sighed, his earlier anger with the man gone now. "We will get you out and dried off and put to bed, and then over the next few weeks we will dry you out – which I'm sure neither of us will enjoy – and then we will see what to do after that, yes?"

"Yes," Alistair agreed, voice thick with grief and exhaustion.

"Good," Zevran said, and set to the tricky task of getting Alistair back out of the tub without overturning it all over the floor.

* * *

**Alistair/Desire Demon – Nipple Tassels On Top**

Alistair had known he was in the Fade as soon as the demon appeared. He'd seen one just like her before – several of them, in fact – and she had the same effect on his as all the others ever had; lust. Instant desire, with mouth gone dry, hands gone sweaty, and cock gone hard.

He should have killed her right off, he knew – he had his sword, or at least the idea of his sword, its distillation, even here in this dream-place that didn't really exist. But for the first time ever, it was just him and the demon. No one else around in danger from her; no one else to witness his moment of weakness. No one else to care, if for once he gave in to temptation, just a little, just the slightest bit.

She raised once eyebrow, one made not of fine hairs as a human's eyebrow would be, but instead a surprisingly flexible little curl of black horn laced with traceries of violet energy. "Intriguing," she said, and took a couple of steps in his direction, hips swaying hypnotically from side to side as she moved, doing interesting things to the layered ruffled veils of her leggings.

"What is?" he asked, more than a little nervous, certainly more than a little intrigued, and determined, too.

"You are. Most beings wish to see me as someone else... a person they desire, a person whose approval they desire, a person they desire power over, some such thing. I see such in your thoughts, and yet... you desire me to remain like this, do you not?" she asked, gesturing with one claw-tipped hand at her natural form, all rich purple skin and rough black horn, set off by the gold jewellery and scant filmy clothing she wore.

He swallowed heavily, then managed to speak. "Yes," he said. "I do."

Her head tilted to one side, as she took another mincing step toward him, tail lashing from side to side, then paused again. She stood posed with one hand resting on her breast, the other on her hip, displaying herself to him, watching him out of her gold-touched ebon eyes.

"Why?" she asked, curiously.

He swallowed again, unable at first to answer. "You are so beautiful the way you are," he said at last, his voice a husky whisper. "I prefer seeing your true form, not some mask of deception. I know what you are; that will not change, no matter form you take."

She smiled, then. "And yet you desire me anyway," she said, almost smugly, and took another step closer, close enough now that he could feel the furnace-like heat of her body, hear the crackling of the energy that wreathed her head, mimicking a cloud of hair. There was a scent around her, too, not like human flesh or female musk but some dryer, sweeter odour, like flowers reduced to ash. Her skin, he saw, was not a true purple, but purple-grey, a silvery tone where it coarsened into areas of rougher, almost scale-like skin, with a bloom of mixed purple and blue shades just under the surface where it was smoother.

He lifted one hand, trembling with a mix of fear and desire, gently crooking his finger around a single pendant chain of the gold part-circle that rested on her nipple. "Yes," he said, mouth dry as old bone as he tugged lightly on the chain.

She smiled, and leaned down to him, head tilting to one side. Just the perfect angle for a kiss. But then, it would be perfect – as perfect as his desire could make it.

* * *

**Alistair/Anders – I Was Just looking**

Anders had gone up into the attic spaces to be alone. It was quiet up there, dark and cool, and mostly empty, apart from a warren of small rooms at one end – unoccupied, there being plenty of rooms empty lower in the Keep – a sizable cistern occupying most of middle of the space, and a great deal of dusty old furniture, crates, chests, barrels, and bundles of belongings filling up the far end. Probably multiple generations worth of Howe discards; he wondered sometimes if Nathaniel was aware that all this... this _stuff_... was even up here.

Not that he'd exactly been in any hurry to volunteer the information. Not when he found it so interesting to spend time up here himself, poking through random containers to investigate their contents. Old clothes and ancient letters, bits of random brick-a-brack, dull or broken tools, a cracked wooden flute, a barrel full of rusted weapons. And, occasionally, what he thought of as real treasure – books.

He'd found another box of them the last time he'd been up here, and planned to spend today finishing sorting through them. Most of them were of little interest to him – ancient romances, or dry treatises on the proper construction of rural outbuildings, a detailed genealogy of locally bred mabari from over a century ago, and similar equally scintillating subjects. But he had found a book or two that caught his interest, and happily curled up to read them in the nest of ancient faded pillows and worn velvet curtains that he'd put together under one of the small windows – old enough to have panes of thin horn, not glass – that let light into the otherwise darkened space. He read for a couple of hours, before the warmth of the day and how early he'd woken conspired to make him curl up and nap for a while.

He couldn't say what exactly woke him – some out-of-place sound, most likely. It was certainly the sound of someone else moving around that brought him fully awake. He froze, not wanting his little sanctum to be discovered. Whomever it was had a lantern; he could see the light from it reflecting off the ceiling, thankfully somewhere over near the far edge of the piled goods. After a while the light stopped moving, whomever it was seemingly settling down somewhere over there.

Anders meant to stay where he was, at first, but then his curiosity got the better of him. Unlike whomever it was that had been moving around, he was quite good at moving silently – years of practise evading templars had contributed to that, of course – and was certain he could easily make his way over to the far side without any undue noise. He carefully picked his way through the piles of goods, using the circle of light to judge how close he was to whomever else was here, until finally he eased his head around a large barrel, and spotted his quarry.

It seemed he was not the only person to have a hideaway up here; Alistair was sprawled out on an old bed, head pillowed on one folded arm, reading by the light of the lantern he'd brought up. He'd clearly found it too warm up here; there was a pile of neatly folded clothing at the foot of the bed, and Alistair was dressed only in a pair of tight-fitting leggings, his lamp-lit skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat.

He should have left, now that he'd seen who it was, but instead found himself standing there, watching the oblivious warrior. He'd seen enough of the warrior before to know he was a large man, but seeing all that muscular flesh wrapped in armour or draped in cloth was a decidedly different experience than seeing him almost-bare was. And given the man's shyness, it was certainly a rare opportunity. All that broad hairy chest and taut stomach, upper arms as thick around as Anders' thigh, and thighs as thick as Anders' waist. The tightness of the warrior's leggings certainly left little to the imagination about his size in other departments as well. Not oversized, no, but certainly at least tending a little towards the above-average end of the scale for such things.

And, Anders was mildly started to note, currently increasing in size, the fabric of Alistair's leggings being drawn noticeably tighter even as he watched. He smirked, wondering just what book it was that the warrior was so intently reading. Possibly something a little risque, with interesting woodcuts? He made a mental note to sneak back here again some time when Alistair _wasn't_ around, and see.

He _really_ should have left then, but watching the flush of arousal spreading like slow fire over Alistair's skin was another of those things that fell into the category of _a rare opportunity_. He remained where he was, watching Alistair all the more intently. Alistair had a rapt expression on his face as he scanned the text held in one hand, his breathing was deepening, and he was biting at his lower lip. The man made a sound, suddenly, and turned over on one side, freeing his arm from pillowing his head to drape over himself. He had his hand spread wide on the skin of his own belly, fingertips pressed hard enough against it to dimple the flesh. But not for long; his hand moved a little, fingers tracing slow circles against his own skin, then slid downwards, tracing along the thickening track of darker hair that led from his navel down to the waistband of his leggings..

Anders inhaled sharply as he watched Alistair begin to slowly palm himself, the bulge increasing markedly in size. The warrior's mouth had fallen slightly open, and even from where he was hidden Anders could hear the deepening rasp of his breath. It wasn't long until Alistair's finger began tugging at his lacings, unfastening the top of his leggings. He shifted enough to push them partway down his legs, leaving his erection covered only by his smalls; a particularly apt word at the moment, given how strained the scrap of fabric was by its contents. He resumed palming himself, gently rubbing the thin soft cloth against his own flesh. Anders could see it darkening slightly where moisture from the warrior's tip was dampening the fabric.

By now Anders' own lips were open a little, mouth going dry as he watched the warrior intently, his own cock straining at the fabric of his smalls within the confines of his robes. As Alistair finally freed his length, Anders' hand reached down to cup over and begin gently palming himself.

He watched as Alistair began stroking himself in earnest, fingers curled around his shaft, thumb stroking firmly over the moist reddened tip on each pull. He'd abandoned the book now, eyes closed and head arched backwards, lost in some inner fantasy as he tugged on himself. As his hips began a slow, shallow thrusting in counter-point to the movements of his hand, Alistair rolled partway over onto his back again. His free hand moved to touch lightly to his lips, tracing their contours, then his tongue lapped out to carefully lick at his fingertips, moistening them. His eyes were partially open again as his fingers traced down his own throat, then across his chest to toy with first one nipple, then the other, rubbing and tweaking to bring them both stiffly erect.

Alistair brought his land back to his mouth and moistened it again, not just the fingertips this time, but broad lapping strokes of his tongue all over fingers and palm, leaving it slick with spittle. He shifted position again, releasing his erection momentarily, then closing his moistened hand around it, making a hoarse sound deep in his throat as he did so.

Anders could only stare as Alistair continued pleasuring himself, thrusting harder into the circle of his own hand, his other hand caressing the skin of his stomach, teasing his nipples, running across the curve of his throat and chest in broad slow strokes, sometimes brushing lightly over his lips. Anders' hand was locked around as much of his own erection as he could manage through the enveloping layers of his robe, achingly hard with the desire to mimic what Alistair was doing, to touch himself in the same ways. Or better yet, to touch and be touched.

Alistair suddenly cried out hoarsely, back arching sharply, heels and shoulders digging into the bed as he came, his seed spattering out over his heaving stomach and still-pumping hand. Cry after cry, until he'd emptied himself. He lay there a while, limp and exhausted, a faint smile on his face, before slowly sitting up and beginning to wipe himself clean.

It was only some time later, after he'd retreated to his own nest again and had quietly taken care of his own aching need, that Anders gave sudden thought to the ability of wardens to sense each other when near, and wonder if Alistair had known he had an audience.


	36. Ask Box Ficlets 27 - Fenris Porn Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fills written for prompts during Fenris Porn Week on Tumblr. Not all of which are smutty, but a fair number of them are, so be warned :)
> 
> Not taking prompts this week as my brain needs a break from them after four weeks in a row of them, so you can expect to see updates to some of my longer fics that I've been neglecting over the last month.

**Fenris/Zevran – Set Me Free**

Normally he could see in the dark quite clearly, or at least as good or better than average. Well enough to have no fears in being chased across darkened rooftops on a moonless night, even the faint starlight usually providing enough light for him to pick out a safe route, even when it was not rooftops that he was already well acquainted with in both daylight and at night, in all conditions. But throw in a darkly overcast night, make it rooftops he had no previous acquaintance with, in a city whose architecture he was not familiar with, throw in a single broken and dilapidated rooftop in a row of otherwise immaculately maintained rooftops... and yes, he might discover that the patch he thought was no more than deeper shadow was, in fact, a gaping hole in the roof, large enough for him to fall through before he realized he had misstepped.

Though not, thankfully, quite as badly as the person following him, who not only made the same mistake but missed the small tiled landing at the head of the stairs, where Zevran was sprawled in what he would have to admit was a daze, and instead fell the full two stories from roof to the unyielding floor of the entrance hall, landing badly and breaking his neck. One less pursuer, anyhow, and as there'd only been the one still behind him when he'd last risked a look back, he'd have to believe he was at least momentarily safe.

For a given value of safe, he corrected, hearing movement in the darkness behind him.

"Do not move," a voice said, a very deep voice, a very calm and self-assured voice. He might have moved anyway, but he felt the lightest of pressures against the back of his neck, and something about that pressure said _blade_ to him, and given how far away the voice had been, there was either a second person or it was a very long blade. He remained still, and cleared his throat, perhaps a touch nervously. But then he'd never liked having people at his back, particularly people with sharp things in their hands.

"I beg your pardon," he said, striving for a light tone of voice. "My mistake... I did not mean to drop in on you like this, only I was rather pressed for time and misstepped."

A very faint snort, which he chose to believe was amused. "Stay there," the voice rumbled. There was silence, afterwards; whomever this was, he moved as quietly as a cat. Zevran considered moving, the touch to his neck having withdrawn as well, but he was tired, and sore, and had a sneaking suspicion that he was not currently up to moving at any real speed. And as quickly as that blade had been at his throat after his fall, he suspected even at his best form it might be a trick to evade whomever that had been.

Zevran actually managed to pick out the faint sound of bare flesh on hard tiles when the person with the delicious voice returned. "Cross your hands behind your back," he was ordered. He hesitated, and felt the touch of the blade again. "Now."

He sighed, and complied, and found himself being hogtied with a speed and effectiveness that spoke of someone quite well-acquainted with ropes and their use in restraining others. A skill he had no real objections to finding in people, though perhaps in a rather different situation than the one he currently found himself in. He rolled over on his side once the person was finished, and got his first glimpse of his captor. Another elf, tall as a human, lean and muscular, wearing a rather fetching outfit of skin-tight leathers. He had a shock of white hair and fine olive skin, marked with a dramatic array of curving blue-white lines. And was holding a very large blade indeed, one almost as long as he was tall, yet held negligently in one hand as if it weighed nothing, as the elf leaned over the rail to look down at the body sprawled on the floor below.

"I believe he is dead," Zevran said calmly. "I head a cracking sound when he hit the floor."

"I believe you are right," the elf said, but was still all caution as he went slowly and silently down the stairs, his bare feet making no sound as he picked his way downwards and over to examine the man. He crouched, going out of Zevran's line of sight for a moment, then rose again, an expression of distaste on his face as he returned his sword to the harness on his back. "Dead, indeed," the elf said, then bent down, caught hold of some part of the body – clothing or arm, Zevran couldn't see at first – and dragged it away out of sight, without fuss. Someone used to sudden death, then.

Zevran hurriedly tested his bindings while the elf was out of sight, hoping that he had not been careful enough in applying them. No such luck; he was quite firmly restrained.

The expression of distaste was still on the elf's face when he returned, taking the stairs two at a time – and still as spookily silent as even – before coming to a stop, standing and looking down at Zevran. It gave Zevran the most delicious feeling of deja vu. "You know, this is not the first time I have found myself tied up and helpless at the feet of a devastatingly handsome elf," he said, smiling and running his eyes appreciatively over the warrior. "Might I ask your name? I am Zevran Arainai, late of Ferelden and even later of the Antivan Crows."

"An assassin?" the elf asked, scowling.

"Yes, though no longer a Crow. I only kill on a more private and personal scale these days. For special friends and the like."

Another snort, then the warrior bent down, caught hold of the ropes binding him, and dragged him away, through a doorway and into a room that, on examination, Zevran decided could only be described as a lair. Most of it in darkness save for a small fire flickering in an ash-filled fireplace, smelling of wine and old food and a certain musky maleness that must be the elf's own scent, along with a noticeable smell of unwashed clothes, stale bedding, and mildew. Part of the ceiling reflected back the faint firelight, while a good-sized chunk of it over beyond the bed was an opening into darkness; another gaping hole.

"Interesting decor," Zevran said once the elf stopped dragging him, leaving him on the floor a few feet from the fire; too far away for him to make any easy attempt to roll over and burn through his ropes, even if he's been willing to risk injury to escape. "You still have not told me your name."

"Fenris," the elf said, walking away again, this time going over to a nearby table. He picked up a plate and a bottle of wine and walked over, dropping onto a nearby bench and studying Zevran as he set down the plate beside himself, then drank heavily from the opened bottle.

"Fenris. An intriguing name. Do you know, it means..."

"...little wolf," the elf said, scowling. "Yes, I know. My master made a point of telling me so, many times."

"Ah, my apologies," Zevran said, and fell silent a moment, thinking. Master? He studied the other elf again, taking in many things; his posture, the way his eyes did not quite meet Zevran's, even though he was the one that was clearly in control. The sense of suppressed anger about him. A slave, he decided. Or possibly an ex-slave, given that slavery was at least technically illegal here in Kirkwall. Ex-slave, he decided, watching the man swallow more of the wine, then pick at the food on the plate... bread and cheese and fresh figs, he thought, by the faint smell of it, and found himself licking his lips, given how long it had been since he'd last eaten.

The elf noticed, and a wry smile momentarily twisted his lips. "Hungry?" he asked.

"Starving. I have not eaten since morning, and even that was no more than a roll and a handful of water," he confessed.

"Hmmm," the elf grunted, and ate another bite, watching him closely. "Why were you being chased? For killing someone?"

Zevran smiled. "No. Technically, it is for _not_ killing someone. I failed a target some years back, and the Crows take a very dim view of failure. That I not only did not die in my failure, but went on to ally with my target... well, they are rather unforgiving. Especially since I have a deplorable habit of killing the Crows they keep sending to kill me."

Fenris gave him a curious look. "Too incompetent to kill a target, but competent enough to kill other Crows? That sounds... unlikely."

Zevran grinned. "I will admit I had some help against some of the Crows. And I will also admit I was not trying my best against the target; I was rather hoping he'd kill _me_ , you see. Only he didn't."

The elf smiled, faintly. "And you found yourself bound at his feet, instead?"

Zevran's grin widened. "Yes. And he decided there were better uses for a handsome and highly skilled elf such as myself than merely killing me. Perhaps you might consider reaching the same decision? I should point out that in addition to killing unwanted parties of adventurers I am also quite skilled at cards, massage, bantering conversation, and bed games."

"I have no use for a whore." Fenris snapped, scowling.

"Who said anything about whoring? Certainly not I. I sleep with people for only two reasons; because I need to get close enough to kill them, or because I find them attractive. And I certainly have no pressing reason to wish a handsome elf such as yourself dead."

Fenris flushed, then scowled. "That is twice you have called me handsome. Do not do so any further," he snapped.

"If you prefer me not to, than I will not do so. Though not saying it does not make it any less true," he said, and gave the elf a look that he knew was generally considered both smouldering and suggestive. He was fascinated to see the other elf blush and look away, then steal a glance back at him. Not entirely uninterested, he judged, more like... frightened. Uncertain. "I have no reason to kill you," he repeated, keeping his voice gentle and low. "Nor you to kill me. Why not free me? And then... well, I will leave, if you want. Or I could stay, and prove my words to you. The choice is yours."

The warrior put down his bottle of wine with a loud thump, and rose to his feet, pacing back and forth across the room for a moment, clearly uncertain about what to do. Zevran remained silent, watching him. He wondered if the other elf was even aware of how sexy he looked, pacing back and forth like that, the faint firelight casting moving shadows over his lithe form, highlighting those odd lines that scored his flesh. He moved like a dancer... no, not a dancer. Something more dangerous. Not a wolf, as his name suggested, but one of the big cats that could be found in the north, all grace and danger, merciless killers when they wished to be.

The elf stopped pacing. He once again drew the great-sword from his back, making Zevran's mouth go dry with fear and his cock twitch with lust, being tied up and in danger answering to a number of his darker fancies. The sword tip lowered, twisted slightly, moved away again, the rope that had bound him falling loose. He carefully moved to sit up, rubbing at his wrists, watching Fenris closely. "Shall I stay?" he asked, voice low and gentle, undemanding.

"Stay or go, I care not," Fenris said, voice a little rough, then turned his back.

Zevran rose to his feet. It would, he knew, make the most sense to just turn and walk out, to go away and leave this strange, dangerous elf alone. But when had he ever paid much attention to what made the most sense? Or cared overly much about danger?

The elf tensed at the sound of Zevran's approaching feet, turned warily as he drew close. Zevran had to look up to meet that suspicious look. He smiled. "Since you won't let me use the other word... let me say that I look forward to proving to you just how beautiful I find you," he said, then slowly, very slowly, reached out to touch fingertips to warm cheek, noting how Fenris momentarily leaned into the touch. Hungry for touch, he thought. For gentleness. He closed the last bit of distance between them, leaning against Fenris' armoured chestplate – an annoyance he planned to remove as soon as he could, along with the rest of the elf's outfit – and drew him down into a kiss.

The warrior remained stiff at first, eyes open and wary as Zevran's lips touched his, lips pursed and hard with distrust. Zevran took his time, pressing himself against the other man, letting him feel the pressure of his growing hardness, letting his own eyes close, showing no fear of the other. Around the second or third kiss Fenris relaxed, just a little, leaning against Zevran rather than trying to hold himself apart, his lips relaxing as his mouth slowly eased open. Only then did Zevran bring his second hand into play, lifting it up to twine into silky white hair and pull Fenris closer, deepening the kiss.

Fenris moaned as Zevran edged one of his legs between the other man's, pleased to feel an answering hardness there. He pressed his thigh firmly against it, then drew back slightly, smiling against Fenris' lips as he felt the elf's hips move slightly, chasing after the receding pressure.

He ended the kiss, drew back a little. "Bed?" he asked.

Fenris' eyes were darkly blown. He nodded jerkily. "Yes, bed," he agreed, glancing that way nervously. Zevran nodded, and led him over, noticing how the sheets and cushions were heaped in a nest-like ring in the middle of the sagging mattress. He could easily picture how the warrior must sleep there, all curled up tight in a ball, like a frightened child. Yes. Definitely a slave, once, and perhaps still one, in his heart of hearts. He said nothing, only began to remove armour; his own, the warrior's, piece by piece and alternated with heated kisses and soothing touches.

There would be no fear, he was determined, already reading the language of the other man's body, the subtle little signals that said _yes_ to some things, and _no_ to others. There would only be a building heat, and a careful sharing of pleasure, without fear or pain or shame. And maybe, perhaps, if they were both lucky, the start of a friendship from this one unexpected night.

* * *

**Fenris/Aveline**

Aveline knocked at the door. There was no answer; she knocked again, frowning in annoyance. A third time; still no answer. She tried the handle, and was somehow unsurprised when it opened easily, not even locked. The elf never did seem to pay enough attention to his own safety, not until slavers were popping out of the woodwork and attempting to recapture him anyway. She bit her lip, wondering whether or not to just push the door in and enter. It might look bad, her being a city guard and this _not_ being a building she technically had any right to enter... but then she thought again of the look on Fenris' face when he'd stormed out of the Hanged Man earlier, and opened the door, quickly stepping inside before closing it quietly behind her.

"Fenris?" she called out. "It's me. Aveline."

Silence.

She picked her way across the rubble-strewn floor, wrinkling her nose at the corpses and broken tiles, the mildewed, damp-spoiled walls and the mushrooms growing out of what had, at some time in the past, been fabric or paper, but was now slowly composting debris. "Fenris?" she called again, when she reached the foot of the steps.

Still no answer, or at least none in words, but she thought she heard the sound of movement upstairs, from within the darkened doorway that led to the single room that the elf made use of. She sighed, and muttered a curse, then slowly climbed the stairs, staying close to the wall where she hoped the steps might still be sound, wincing at the chorus of creaks that accompanied her upwards. She'd seen Hawke thunder up them in full armour as if certain that the rotten wood would never dare crumble under her feet; she was not so certain, and preferred caution.

"Fenris?" she called yet again as she reached the door to the darkened room, lit only at the farthest end by the last of the fading sunlight still making its way in the broken ceiling, not a candle or even coals in the fireplace to otherwise light it.

"Go away," Fenris rumbled, from somewhere in the darkness. Near the fireplace, she guessed.

"No," she said, and walked forward into the room, slowly, feeling her way with her feet, waiting for her eyes to adjust to what little light there was inside. She could hear the elf make an exasperated sound, then the scape of leather against wood and faint jingle of the metal parts of his harness moving as he rose to the feet. She stopped.

"Foolish woman," he said.

"No more foolish than you," she said, as mildly as she could. "I know you're unhappy about Hawke and..."

"You know _nothing!_ "he spat out, interrupting her. Sounds of metal being draw, of hurried footsteps; she felt her arm being grabbed and yanked, and refrained from countering his attack. She found herself being flung against a nearby wall, felt the elf moving closer to stand before her, his sword pressed to her neck, above her bandana. She could just make out the whiteness of his hair, the pale oval of his face. Could smell the drink on his breath. And yet, she was not frightened; she could feel the tremor of his hands, in the sharpened edge of metal pressed to her throat. And – perhaps most tellingly – his lines had remained dark. If he was truly angry, had actually meant her any harm, she was convinced that she'd be seeing more than just his vague shape, there in the darkness.

They stood that way for a long moment, neither speaking. Then Fenris sagged, took the sword away from her throat and moved off a step of two, turning away from her. "Sorry," he said, his voice low and husky.

She touched her throat to check for blood, was relieved to feel nothing but smooth, unmarked skin. As sharp as he kept that monstrous blade, it wouldn't have taken much for him to injure her. "You'd better be," she said calmly. "That was a damned _stupid_ thing for you to do."

He moved another step away, head lowering further, back and shoulders hunching in that posture she so hated, the one that made him seem shorter than his true height, that diminished him. Were he a guard she was training, she'd have been constantly barking at him to straighten up and stand proud. A pity he was an elf; she'd have recruited him without a second thought, had the city guard accepted elves.

"Why are you even here?" he asked, sounding tired now, more than anything else. Tired and empty.

"I was worried," she said softly. "I saw your face, before you left the Hanged Man."

A long silence. "So?" he asked at last.

"So I've seen that expression before, on my own face, after Wesley died. I know what I was feeling that made me... that..." she stopped, her voice cracking for a moment, then drew a deep breath. "Anyway, it made me worry about you."

Another long silence; Fenris was standing motionless, his back to her. She could make him out now, more than just the darkness of his leathers and the paleness of his hair, as her eyes adjusted to the dark.

"Thank you," he finally said, very softly, the merest whisper of sound. "For being concerned."

She pushed away from the wall, and took a step toward him. "I'll leave if you'd rather be alone," she told him. "But I'd prefer to stay, since I'm going to keep worrying about you until I'm sure you're not... not thinking of doing anything stupid."

He laughed at that, a short dry chuckle. "Stupider than drinking myself into oblivion in a darkened mansion, you mean?"

"Yes," she said, calmly. "Because I know what some of the foolish things I considered doing on the really bad days were. And I'd rather not be back here in a few days time, writing up a report about the body of a squatter having been found in an abandoned Hightown mansion."

He fell silent again, head lowering further, shoulders slumping a little. "All right," he said tiredly. "Stay."

He walked back over to the bench where he must have been seated when she first walked in; there was a bottle resting on it, which he picked up and drank a long swallow from, then turned to her. "I'm sorry, I'm forgetting my manners," he said, strangely formal. Perhaps another attempt at humour, she supposed. "Would you care to join me in a drink?"

"Mind if I light a fire first?" she asked. "It's dark as the sewers in here, and getting cold."

Fenris snorted. "Shouldn't I be the one noticing the cold?" he asked, and drank another slug of wine. "I come from tropical Tevinter, after all, while you are the one from frozen Ferelden. But yes, go ahead and light a fire if you wish. There should be some wood to the right of the fireplace. If not, I can always go smash apart another cupboard or cabinet or something."

She smiled, just slightly, noticing how carefully he was enunciating his words; more than a little drunk and trying not to show it. There was wood where he said it would be, which by the feel of it, the combination of polished smoothness on some sides and roughly broken surfaces on others, said to her searching hands that it was indeed broken-up pieces of furniture. She crouched down, and piled a few smaller pieces in the fireplace.

"The tinderbox is on the mantle, a little to your left," Fenris said quietly.

She reached up, felt along the mantlepiece, and found it. She opened it and felt inside, quickly locating the steel and flint in the smallest compartment. The box was well-supplied with bits of fluff and scraps of fabric, doubtless some of it sourced from the same furniture as the firewood. She placed a large pinch of some sort of fluffy lint on the hearthstone before her, put the tinderbox off to one side, then struck steel and flint together. It took two tries until a spark landed in the lint. Some careful blowing to bring it into a real flame, a hasty use of a spill, and she had the tinder set alight, and began to carefully add larger pieces of wood, only stopping once she had a proper fire burning. She restored the flint and steel to the tinderbox, then returned it to where she'd found it, before she finally rose and turned to look at Fenris.

He'd been watching her, she thought, judging by the hasty turning away of his head and the slight flush on his cheeks. Though the flush might have just been the wine. As she stepped toward him, he turned his head back toward her, though still not looking directly at her, and held up the bottle. She took it – more to keep it out of his hands for at least a little while than anything else – and took a careful sip.

The wine was... she didn't have words. She'd never known, never imagined, that wine could taste so good. Rich and heady, and so many flavours in just that one small sip. She held it in her mouth for a second or two, feeling moderately stunned, then carefully swallowed. "That's... very good wine," she managed to say after a moment, still enjoying the aftertaste of it on her tongue.

"It's an Aggregio Pavali," Fenris said. "Very expensive and very hard to come by, even in Tevinter. My master stocked the cellar here with a king's ransom of it merely because he could. It was his favourite, he always claimed."

"But not yours?" she asked, as she sat down beside him.

He shrugged. "Wine is wine. Some of it better than others. The aggregio is very good, but my enjoyment of wine right now mostly derives from drinking up my master's cellar and knowing how infuriated he would be to see me guzzling it like water."

"The same way you enjoy hacking apart his furniture for firewood," she said slowly.

"Yes. And letting his house go to ruin around me. Sleeping in the bed that I once slept on the floor at the foot of, a chained and collared slave, a _thing_ rather than a person."

Aveline nodded, then took another sip of the wine. "I can understand your reasoning, I suppose, though I have to regret that you treat a fine wine so poorly."

"It's wine, it doesn't haven't feelings. It doesn't care how it's treated. Unlike people. Unlike me."

Aveline remained silent, just took another sip of the wine, then finally handed the bottle back to Fenris.

He took another drink from it, though only a small sip this time, then just sat there quietly, turning the bottle around and around in his hands, head lowered. "Thank you for coming by," he said. "I fear you're right that I might have been tempted to do... something foolish. Something more foolish than usual. I know I hurt Hawke after I... when I left her. I never realized how much more it would hurt to see her leave me, as well, especially when it meant her taking up with the mage in my place." He paused for a while, then sighed. "I regret my decision now... my cowardice. But it is a choice I will have to live with; there is no going back and changing things."

"I wish there was," Aveline said, and sighed, feeling more than a touch melancholy herself. "If there was, I would go back and protect Wesley properly, so that he didn't die."

"Could he not protect himself, this Wesley of yours?" Fenris asked, curiously. "Was he not a templar?"

"Yes. But we weren't together on the field at Ostagar, he was with the templars, I was with King Cailan's guard... things went to the Black City pretty early on. I thought of seeking out Wesley then, but I stayed. Until King Cailan fell. When I finally found Wesley, he was already injured... had I left when I'd first thought of it, first seen that we could not win, I might have reached him in time to prevent the injury. He might not have been tainted."

"And you would have spent the remainder of your life feeling that you'd failed your King. That if you'd remained on the field, that perhaps you might have done something to change the outcome of the battle."

She tried to laugh. The noise she made was ugly. "Yes, I suppose you're right," she said, and then started to cry. "Damn. I thought I was past regretting everything about Ostagar... running all the 'if onlys' though my head. Regretting what a coward I was..."

Fenris put his hand on her shoulder, rather to her surprise, and passed her the bottle. "You are no coward, Aveline," he said. "You are one of the bravest people I know. A coward would have run long before your King died; a coward would have cared for no one but herself, would have abandoned the field without first searching for their husband. You are one of the most honourable people I know; it's your honour that makes you regret that you couldn't save everyone, not any cowardice."

She cried harder then, not because she believed his words, but because she could hear in his voice how deeply _he_ believed what he was saying. It touched her, as no praise from anyone had since Ostagar. He patted her shoulder, awkwardly, then hesitantly put his arm around her shoulders, trying to comfort her as she cried.

"Thank you," she said hoarsely, once she managed to get herself back under control.

"You're welcome," he said softly. He touched her cheek with his other hand, turning her to face him, studying her face with the oddest expression she'd ever seen. Very gently he rubbed his thumb across the tear tracks on her cheek, then slowly leaned closer, stopping with his face just a couple of inches from hers, his head tilted just slightly to one side, a questioningly look in his eyes.

Had he continued the movement, she might have dodged it. Might have repulsed him, rose, left... but he didn't. He stayed absolutely still, both of them motionless for a very long moment, studying each other's faces, gauging the look in each other's eyes. It was she that moved first, not away, but toward him, as slowly as he'd first leaned toward her, giving him a chance to change his mind, to back off... he didn't.

It was far from the best kiss she'd ever had in her life. They were both too hesitant, too self-aware and, yes, even a little frightened. But it was a nice kiss... a sweet kiss, friendly and a little too dry. When it ended Fenris turned his head a little away and slightly down, looking at her sideways through his bangs, an slightly amused little smirk on his lips. She felt a smile twisting at her own. And then they both laughed, and suddenly everything was all right again, the sadness gone. She took the bottle from his hand, and chugged it back in the same way he had been, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth afterwards, and grinning at him. "So. Do you have another bottle of this handy?" she asked. "I think we're going to need a second one."

His smile deepened, and he rose to his feet. "Of course," he said, and walked over to a table against the far wall, picking up a bottle from a cluster of them and then turning to walk back toward her. The lines on his hand flared, lighting up his face against the darkness for just a moment with the reflected light, and then he tossed aside the cork, effortlessly removed, and the glow disappeared. He resumed his seat, and they tapped their bottles lightly together before taking another drink.

There would, Aveline was sure, be more kisses, after they'd had more wine. And possibly – probably – a use of the bed, once they were both relaxed enough. Not out of some idea of love between them, but out of friendship, and foolishness.

The right kind of foolishness, this time.

* * *

**Fenris/f!Hawke – Reunion**

Too long, since they'd last seen each other; too long since they'd last been together, in any sense of the word. At least she'd thought to have their meeting away from the others, not in the travelling encampment of rebels, mages, formari, and ex-templars that Hawke was the titular leader of, but in an abandoned farmhouse some miles away from it. Dangerous for her, if any templars should think to investigate the place for any signs of life, but it was a calculated risk, unlikely to happen, and he was there and could protect her if necessary.

Not that Hawke generally _needed_ protection, being rather like a force of nature when it came to her ability to destroy things. People she'd taken a dislike to had a tendency to develop a sudden case of dead. Or fled, if they were at least halfway intelligent and managed to run away while she was busy dealing with some other member of their party. And didn't have Varric on hand to pepper them full of arrows, or one of the mages handy to prevent their abrupt departure from the scene.

All such thoughts left his head when the door banged open and Hawke stepped inside, sweaty and reeking of horse, dressed in her usual well-worn leathers with the hilts of her twin swords sticking up over her shoulders. A wide smile crossed her face, and she leaped across the room toward him in one of those arms-wide enthusiastic hugs of hers that never failed to make him tense for a moment. He'd seen her make a similar move all too often, only with a sword in each hand and a blood-thristy grin on her face, to be entirely sanguine about being the target of one of her lunges.

Though he did rather like the part where she hugged him tightly and kissed him breathless, before whirling away again to slam the door shut. She turned back to him, leaning back against the door and looking intently at him. "I have _missed you_ ," she said, and grinned at him again. The grin that always gave him a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach, even more-so than her hugs did. She hugged a lot of people, most of them enthusiastically. She even grinned at a lot of them too, for that matter. But this was _his_ grin, the one she only made for him, with the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth as if biting back all the words she wanted to say.

"And I you," he said, quietly. He was always the quiet one; she the loud enthusiasm. The one in the spotlight making big showy moves, everyone's eyes on her, while he just quietly went about the business of killing anyone who tried to get close enough to harm her. A curious reversal of roles; with he the warrior and she the rogue he though most people would expect them to be the opposite. But they weren't. And it worked for them.

As now, when she abruptly straightened and began to prowl toward him, her hands already busy unfastening the latches and buckles that held her armour on. "You're wearing too many clothes," she pointed out. "Take them off."

He did, piling them neatly on the rough wooden crate by the wood-framed pile of hay that was all the bed the place boasted. Though at least it was clean, sweet-smelling hay, as he'd arrived early enough to turn out the old, dusty, mouse-smelling contents of the low frame and fill it with fresh dry grasses from the wild meadow outside, spreading his bedroll over top of the fragrant pile to protect their skins from any hard stems or sharp prickles the grasses might contain.

Hawke's clothing ended up in a trail from the door to the bed, where she put her arms around his neck and pressed herself up against him, and gave him a very thorough kissing. After which he gave her an equally thorough kissing in return, before picking her up and dropping her onto the middle of the bed, drawing a delighted squeal from her.

In bed their dynamic reversed; there she took the passive role, smilingly accepting of whatever he wished them to do. A necessary reversal, for him; not being the one in control raised too many ugly old memories. A relaxation, for her, allowing someone else, someone she trusted, to take the lead for once. She lay there, happily sprawled on her back, while he touched her, gently at first, light caresses to her breasts, her sides, her thighs, carefully nudging them further apart. Then firmer touches, and kisses, kisses everywhere, on lips and chin and throat, along shoulders and on the dark tips of each breast, down across the plane of her stomach and lower yet, to soft warm folds of moist flesh.

Her hands twined into his hair, making massaging movements in alternation, like one of those blighted cats the abomination adored kneading its paws. A good feeling, actually; enough to make him wish he could purr, especially when her fingers moved to caress at the edges of his ears. He moaned against her flesh, drawing a moan from her in turn, then abruptly moved back upwards, kissing her hungrily even as their hands co-operated in holding her spread wide for him to enter, in guiding him into her.

Wet and moist and hot and delightfully tight. He growled in her ear as he sank into her, knowing she liked that, and felt it throughout his entire body when it made her laugh. Her arms closed about him, a brief tight hug before falling free again, leaving him unrestrained. He showed no restraint, either, his hunger for her after so long apart needing to be expressed in more than words, which he was bad at anyway. There would be time for gentleness later; for now, their passion ruled. He clung to her, tight enough to leave bruises later, as he pounded into her, but judging by the way her legs rose to wrap tightly around him, the unashamedly loud cries she was making, he did not think she would mind. Chide him a little later, maybe, as she liked to do sometimes, but nothing seriously meant.

He felt her start to come, and lowered his head to kiss and nip at her collarbones, the smooth curve of her shoulders, the arched column of her throat; not hard enough to mark her, but hard enough to be felt, drawing more cries from her. He felt her crest, and quiet, and then crest a second time, muscles tightening hard around him as she came again. Somehow he managed to control his own reaction, until her arms closed around him again, almost painfully hard, her heels drumming against his buttocks as she crested a third time. Then he finally had his own release, crying out even louder than she before collapsing on top of her, at least temporarily exhausted, both of them sated.

She cuddled him then, hands stroking gentle reassurance along his skin, pressing butterfly-light little kisses to his mouth and cheeks, petting his sweat-soaked hair. He sighed, content, and they curled up together, resting for now, knowing they had all night before they must return to the reality outside the long-deserted farmhouse.

* * *

**Fenris/Anders – In Case Of Emergency**

"Mage," Fenris called out, banging his fist on the door. "Open up."

He heard the scuffing of footsteps from inside, sensed the nearness of the mage, a tingling in his lyrium lines as they responded to Anders' approach.

"It's the middle of the night, you know," Anders said, even as he unbarred and opened the door, scowling at him, eyes squinted against the light of the torch the elf was carrying. Then his eyes widened, as he took in the blood soaking the left shoulder of the warrior's armour, running down his limp arm to drip off his fingertips and spatter against the floor of the passageway. " _Maker!_ What happened!" he exclaimed, even as he reached for Fenris' shoulder.

Fenris flinched away from his touch, stepping past him into the clinic and looking around sharply before turning back to Anders. "Close that first; I might be being pursued still," he said, and waited while Anders hurriedly closed and barred the door, only relaxing once that was done. He looked around, then wedged the lower end of his torch into an empty holder on one wall. "I was ambushed, on my way home from the Hanged Man," he said tiredly. "Bounty hunters, again. I killed or wounded several of them, then one managed to get behind me and stabbed me in the shoulder. I managed to kill him as well, thought it cost me my sword, and after that I had to run. I lost most of them after I entered Darktown – safer for me here than for them."

Anders nodded as he carefully examined Fenris' shoulder, frowning at what he could make out of the injury. "Better take off the armour," he said. "I can't take a proper look at it this way. Can you move your left arm at all?"

"No," Fenris said, and undid his armour one-handed. Anders had to help him peel off the jacket once his breastplate had been removed. The mage hissed through his teeth as he took in the damage to Fenris' shoulder. "Bad?" Fenris asked.

"Bad enough. It's a good thing you came straight here; this needs real healing. Sit down, I need some supplies," Anders said, waving in the general direction of the cots lined up along the wall, then hurried over to the shelves – a collection of stacked crates, really – that held most of his supplies. He brought over clean rags, an elfroot poultice, a roll of bandages, then disappeared into his bedroom for a couple of minutes, returning with a small potion bottle carefully cradled in both hands.

Fenris knew it must be worse than he'd thought, if the mage thought he'd need a lyrium potion in the course of healing it. He sat still while Anders carefully cleaned the wound, then placed his hands over it. "Ready?" Anders asked.

Fenris nodded sharply, and was surprised by the dizziness and touch of nausea that followed the movement. He must have lost more blood than he'd thought. "Just do it," he grated out, bracing himself for the touch of healing magic.

He never knew just how his lines would react to Anders' magic. Usually some level of discomfort, from an annoying itch right through to gut-wrenching pain. Once, it had felt like he was being tickled all over; a few times, it had been what he considered a worse sensation than any pain; involuntary arousal, leaving him aching and needy and embarrassingly erect. Today, he was relieved to find, it was just warmth, on the edge of feeling too hot but not quite there, and a brief flare of pain that shot right down his arm from shoulder to fingertips, making the arm jerk and him growl a curse.

"That's actually a good sign," Anders said quietly, a touch nervously, before removing his hands from Fenris' shoulder long enough to pick up the lyrium potion and drink it. "I was able to heal the worst of the damage in time; you'll retain use of your arm."

That made Fenris shiver; the thought of being unable to wield his sword, of being helpless if slavers attacked him again, was not one he enjoyed. Anders, meanwhile, set his hands back where they'd been, and continued his healing, brow wrinkled in concentration as he worked. The feeling of heat returned, then slowly changed, cooling, becoming a feeling of intense cold before the mage finally lifted his hands with a sigh. Fenris shivered and rolled his shoulders back, glad to feel the sensations in his lines return to normal.

"That's as much as I can do for now," Anders said, and covered the remainder of the wound with the poultice before carefully bandaging it.

"Thank you," Fenris said quietly when he was done.

Anders smiled slightly, his fingers toying with the hairs at the nape of Fenris' neck. "You know I'm always here if you need me," he said softly, one eyebrow just barely arching, a ghost of a smile lifting his lips.

Fenris snorted, and then smiled, looking away. "I don't know that I'm up to very much at the moment," he said, voice carefully neutral, though his head rolled backwards in enjoyment as Anders' long fingers moved from toying with his hair to massaging at the back of his neck.

Anders nodded. "You lost a lot of blood," he agreed, leaning closer, both hands working gently on Fenris' back and shoulders now, avoiding the injured area but finding and removing tension everywhere else. "You'd better stay overnight so I can keep an eye on you," he whispered, breath tickling the back of Fenris' neck as the mage leaned close to him. "Just in case. And then I can give you a thorough checkup in the morning."

Fenris ducked his head, hiding an even wider smile. "That sounds acceptable," he agreed, and allowed the mage to lead him off to bed.

* * *

**Fenris/Isabela – On Board**

It was strange to see Kirkwall from out at sea, a sight he had never actually seen before. When he'd first visited the city long ago with Danarius, he'd been below-decks until they'd docked, and again when they departed. When he'd fled here, it had been as a stowaway, finding down in the hold until after dark and then sneaking ashore. And now... now he was leaving, perhaps never to return.

Isabela stopped and leaned on the railing beside him for a moment, watching the city recede behind them. "Do you think you'll miss it?" she asked.

"Kirkwall?" he said, and thought for only a moment before answering. "No."

"Good," she said, and smiled as she straightened up again. Her fingers brushed lightly up his arm and across his back as she walked past him. "You're in my cabin, unless you'd rather not be."

He smiled, a very small, slightly crooked smirk. "That sounds acceptable," he told her, and went back to watching until Kirkwall disappeared out of sight behind the foreboding cliffs that lined this section of coast. Only then did he finally turn and make his way to the stern of the ship, ducking down the staircase into the area of cabins. There were just a couple of very small cabins, Isabela's ship being designed more for the carrying of cargo than of passengers. Hawke and Anders were crammed into one; Merrill and Bethany were sharing the other. Isabela of course had the largest cabin, at the stern, the only one with a proper bed instead of hammocks.

She was already there, leaning on the chart table with a thoughtful look on her face as she studied her maps. She looked up as he entered, and smiled warmly. "Two days to Amaranthine; we'll lose Bethany there, possibly Anders and Hawke as well. I've promised Merrill to take her all the way to Gwaren. After which I plan to head back north, to the Rialto Bay between Antiva and Rivain," she told him, lightly tracing out their route with one slim finger, then flicked him a look from under lowered eyelieds. "You're welcome to stay aboard as long as you wish. Or disembark at any time."

Fenris nodded. "I would be pleased to stay, as long as you can find a use for me," he said, and smiled at the grin that immediately crossed her face. " _Not_ just in your bed," he told her. "I won't be a useless hanger-on."

She nodded, all seriousness for a moment. "Of course. I'm sure we can find a use for a man who is good with a blade; I'm a privateer, not a merchant, and that means we'll be seeing battle eventually. Learn the ropes to work as crew and you'll earn the same wage as anyone. Though I don't expect you'd remain crew very long. You're not exactly the happy-just-following-orders type."

Fenris smiled. "No, I'm not," he agreed.

"Good. Well, if you _do_ become crew, there's one rule you need to accept right off; I don't fraternize with crew when we're at sea. You'll be bunked in with the rest of them, same accommodations, same food, same treatment. If that doesn't suit you, well..." she shrugged. "Then my offer to put you ashore anywhere you wish still holds."

Fenris nodded slowly. He could see the sense in the rule. "And when we're not at sea?" he asked softly.

Isabela smiled slowly. "Then whom I chose to fraternize with is my business. Though I won't promise that it will necessarily be you; I won't be held down by any single person."

Fenris nodded again, then took a step closer to her. "And am I crew now?" he asked.

Isabela grinned again. "No. Nor would I sign you on as one until I'm sure you can handle life at sea."

Fenris smiled. "Good. Then perhaps we should take the opportunity to fraternize while we may," he suggested, and closed the distance between them.

"An _excellent_ idea," Isabela said, and moved into his embrace, fingers already reaching for the clasps of his armour.

* * *

**Fenris/Anders – Here We Go Again**

As soon as the door had closed behind them, Fenris was on Anders, shoving him against the wall and pinning him there, pressed together chest-to-chest. The mage made a startled noise of protest and lifted his hands as if to push Fenris way, but the elf grabbed the mage's wrists and pulled them up over Anders' head, pressing them to the wall in gauntleted hands. "Do not provoke me further," he snarled.

" _Provoke_ you..." Anders started to say, confused, then broke off with a look of enlightenment briefly crossed his face. "Talking to Hawke, you mean?"

Fenris growled, and leaned against the mage all the harder, wine-laden breath gusting warm against the mage's cheek. "He was flirting with you again."

"He's _Hawke_. He flirts with _everyone_ ," Anders said, looking amused. "Varric told me he tried flirting with _Meredith_ when he was in her office last week. And then with Orsino, out in the hallway right outside her still-open door. He's like an importunate dog, always has his eye open for something shaggable."

"That is not the point," Fenris said, scowling.

Anders' amused smile only grew wider. "No, the point is that you're jealous. Can I be jealous too? He flirted with you as well."

"And I shut him down as soon as he did. _You_ did not," Fenris pointed out, lowering his head and glaring out from under his brows at the mage. "And I do not like you being amused by this."

Anders' smile faded away. "You're angry," he said after a moment.

" _Yes_ ," Fenris snapped.

A long silence fell, the two just staring at each other, Fenris still scowling. Anders looked worried for a while, then his expression smoothed out, becoming... intrigued. He wiggled around, then arched his back and legs a little, enough to press himself more tightly to the elf. "Let me make it up to you," he said, sounding oddly breathless.

Fenris blinked, head flinching back slightly. "What do you mean..." he began to say, only to have further words cut off by the mage suddenly dipping his head, mashing their lips together in a bruising kiss. Fenris froze. _He_ was the one in control, what did the mage think he was even doing...

Anders ground his groin against the elf again, then drew back his head. "Let me make it up to you," he repeated, voice husky.

Fenris stared up at him, then his hands slowly loosened. "Show me how you'll do that," he said, his own voice even lower and rumblier than normal.

Anders smiled – no, smirked – and carefully tugged his hands free from Fenris' grasp. "You'll like this," he said, then slid down the wall, coming to a stop sitting with his back against it, his legs outstretched between Fenris' feet. "Stay there," he said quietly, his fingers already reach for the belt that looped around Fenris' waist, just above Anders' head. Fenris frowned, bracing his hands against the wall and leaning forward slightly to look down and see what the mage was up to.

Anders quickly undid the belt and the clasps holding the lower portion of Fenris' jacket closed. He undid the lacing of the elf's leggings, tugging and folding the leather far enough down and to either side to reveal the elf's cock, moving his hands to bracket it but not yet touch. He stopped, then, looking up at the elf leaning over him. "May I?" he asked.

Fenris shivered, his cock stirring partially erect. "Yes," he growled.

Anders started with just his hands, gently exploring the long shaft, stroking his fingertips over the elf's balls, covered in skin with just the faintest velvety fuzz of fine, short hairs. He cupped them in one hand, long fingertips massaging at the sensitive skin in back of them, his other hand closing around the base of Fenris' cock and then running lightly up to the tip, smooth skin sliding easily through his loose fist. Fenris sucked in air and shifted his weight uneasily, then edged his feet a little further apart, lowering himself slightly. Anders repeated the light stroking motion a couple more times, watching as the tip of Fenris' cock edged slowly out its sheath. After a while be began a firmer stroke, finger wrapped over the top curve of Fenris' increasing erection with the ball of his thumb sliding firmly along the underside, drawing another faint sound from the elf.

He leaned forward, with just the slightest pause to glance upward and meet Fenris' eyes before his tongue reached out to lick at the moistened, reddening tip, a fast light lick up along the groove there, and then a second, longer lick that travelled around the edge of the glans, his hands still busily working at the rest of Fenris' shaft and balls. After a few more licks he closed his lips around the tip, then sucked, taking in a little more of the shaft as he did so.

Fenris groaned, then shifted position, bracing one forearm against the wall and his head against that, before reaching down with his free hand to touch Anders' cheek. Anders tilted his head back slightly to meet the elf's eyes again, rubbing his cheek lightly against the hand for a moment. Then he took in even more of Fenris' erection, as much as he could comfortably have in his mouth, while at the same time the hand that had been fondling Fenris' balls moved further back, rubbing between Fenris' legs. The _sound_ it drew from the elf...

Anders smiled, as much as he could around the obstruction in his mouth, then slowly drew his head back, keeping his lips locked firmly around the flesh that filled his mouth, working his tongue against the underside. He closed his teeth gently around the shaft, just back of the swell of the head, and peeled back his lips enough to inhale sharply, feeling the elf shiver at the sensation of sharp teeth and cool air against saliva-moistened skin. Again he took in Fenris' cock, a bit at a time, his fingers meanwhile moving away from between Fenris' legs and instead reaching around him to stroke against the puckered flesh further back. Fenris' hips jerked away from his first questing touch, forcing a little more of his length into Anders' mouth. The mage froze for a second, then Fenris relaxed and moved back again, pressing slightly against his questing fingertips.

Anders made an approving humming sound deep in his throat, keeping his mouth and fingers working against the elf. Fenris' hand had moved away from Anders' face when he'd flinched; now it returned, petting hesitantly at Anders' hair, smoothing it back from his face. Anders closed his eyes, concentrating on what he was doing. He took an extra-long breath in through his nose, then swallowed the elf in as deeply as he could take him.

Fenris cried out in surprised pleasure, tensing at the sensation at first. Anders had moved the hand that had been on the base of Fenris' shaft to rest on his thigh instead; he could feel the leather-clad muscles under his hand quivering with tension, then slowly relax. He ran his hand up and down the thigh a few inches, soothingly, as one of his fingers pressed gently against the elf's rear, wiggling slightly and then sliding inward, drawing another cry and renewed tension. He went still, waiting for the elf to relax again, feeling his head beginning to swim slightly with the lack of air. After a long moment he pressed lightly against Fenris' thigh with his hand, at the same time drawing his head back slowly. The elf's erection slid free of his throat, allowing him to resume breathing through his nose. He waited a moment, carefully working his finger in a little deeper, then drew another deep breath, and swallowed Fenris down again.

The sound the elf made this time, as Anders' mouth and throat enveloped him, finger probing deep inside of him, was closer to a sob that a gasp. It was followed in short order by an even more strangled sound as Anders' finger finally reached its destination, sliding over just the right spot inside.

" _Anders_ ," Fenris cried out as Anders swallowed again, throat muscles flexing around the elf's length, finger rubbing back and forth deep within the elf, Fenris' hand tightening almost painfully around a fistful of the mage's hair.

Anders champed his jaws just slightly, letting Fenris feel his teeth again – not hard enough to be painful, just enough to draw another groan from the warrior, then slowly drew back his head again, mouth and throat and lips and finger all working at the elf. Fenris made another sobbing sound as Anders' free hand moved to grasp and massage his sack again, thumb and fingers gently manipulating the harder nodules of flesh within. He waited until he had only the last few inches of the elf's erection in his mouth, then summoned the tiniest spark of magic to the fingertips of both hands. Fenris came with a shout, lyrium lines briefly flaring, casting blue-white light on Anders' closed lids as he continued to suck and mouth at the elf's cock as shock after shock drew the elf's orgasm out and out.

The elf went limp as it finally ended, legs giving out under him.. Anders managed to catch him, preventing him from falling and instead guiding him down to sit heavily in Anders' lap, still straddling the mage's legs. Anders wrapped his arms around the smaller man, drawing him close, cradling him against his chest. Fenris sighed and was satisfied to cuddle against him for a moment, head pillowed on one of the mage's feather-clad shoulder.

"Apology accepted?" Anders asked softly, one hand stroking soothingly up and down the elf's back.

Fenris snorted, then wiggled closer against the mage. "Yes. For now," he said, rough voice muffled from having his face tucked in against the side of the mage's neck.

Anders smiled, all-too-aware of the aching hardness beneath his own robes, and certain that once Fenris had recovered a little they'd find something to do about that, as well.

* * *

**Fenris/Bethany – Prey**

Bethany smiled at her brother's guests, making polite small talk, working her way slowly across the room in the direction of her prey. Not directly towards him, of course, that would be far too obvious, but the seemingly random meanderings of her path as she exchanged pleasantries and courtesies with one person after another moved her gradually, almost imperceptibly in his direction.

He was aware of her, she knew, she could see it in the way he carefully avoided looking at her, and the brief amusement that had shown the one time their gaze had accidentally met. He was talking to Varric now, leaning at his ease against the wall, arms folded neatly across his narrow chest, while the dwarf stood before him, feet spread and one hand making expansive gestures as he talked, thankfully not with the one holding a tankard of ale.

She turned to smile at and exchange a few brief words with another of Garrett's guests, smile widening when Lady Elegant suddenly showed up at her shoulder, on the arm of her husband – a bent and wizened old man with a snowy white beard that reached to his waist in front, as if making up for the baldness of his head that rose from a fluffy fringe of hair like a too-large egg in a too-small nest. A nice man, and kind, one of the few nobles here that Bethany genuinely enjoyed seeing and speaking to. She could understand what Elegant saw in him, and knew it had nothing to do with the man's wealth (he had almost none) or social standing (the same) and everything to do with the courteous gallantry and fondness he displayed toward his much-younger wife.

It was some minutes of warm conversation later before she finally turned away from the pair, moving a few steps closer to her target before being intercepted by her escort for the evening, a young templar who seemed both surprised and elated to be the object of interest of several young guests of the female persuasion. They exchanged only a few words before moving on again, her at an angle that moved her somewhat closer to Fenris, he off to attempt dancing with one of the girls who'd been batting her eyes all evening. Bethany had to hide a smile; Keran was a very sweet young man, but she knew from prior experience that he was two left feet when it came to dancing. At least he was dressed informally tonight, so the girls wouldn't have steel-shod feet stepping on their slipper-clad toes.

She chanced a glance that passed over Fenris. He was alone again, sipping from a wine glass held cradled in one hand, watching Garrett and Anders where the two were holding court over near the fireplace. Garrett was leaning on the mantle and holding forth to a circle of admirers, Anders slouched in the shadows nearby, a very faint smile on his lips as he watched Garrett, neither of them paying any attention to either her or Fenris.

Her brother would not approve of her interest in the elf, she knew. Not that she cared; Garrett rarely approved of anything that went against his idea of her as a young, sweet innocent girl in need of his protection. Never mind that she was an adult, and perfectly capable of making her own decisions.

_She_ had decided to join the chantry, ending the need for her family to hide her, ending the risk of them being injured or even killed by templars for sheltering her; _her_ decision, not Garrett's. She had mastered her fears and passed her harrowing without difficulty, her father's training having been at as high a standard, if not higher, than what was taught in the Circle. She had become a well-respected member of the Circle of Kirkwall, trusted enough to be allowed to leave the Gallows on occasion with only minimal templar escort, as she had tonight.

But to Garrett, she knew, she would forever be the innocent baby sister he was supposed to protect. She'd been far from innocent, even before entering the Circle; she'd _killed_ with her magic, when it was needed to protect her brother and his companions. It had been her reaction to that, more than anything else – the feeling of how _wrong_ it was for her to use her power to end another's life – that had in large part contributed to her decision to turn herself in to the chantry.

Garrett didn't understand that choice; _couldn't_ understand it, when he made a regular practise of killing people with his blades, for money. Nor was he likely to understand her relationship with Fenris, or approve of her plans for this evening if he ever became aware of them. He saw the mage-hating elf as a danger to her, plain and simple.

But nothing was ever plain and simple. Not the ethics of using her magic, nor her life in or out of the chantry, and certainly not what it was she felt for the prickly, stand-off-ish elf who distrusted mages but had once told Anders, just within her hearing, that she was "not weak", in an approving tone of voice. Their courtship had been a long, slow process, of tiny steps and occasional glances and very rare touches, a thing of silences and shadows. And tonight... well, with help from a friend, her escort was going to be rather thoroughly diverted for a precious hour or two.

There was a door not far from Fenris. She stopped, near it but not _too_ near it, and scanned the room again. Garrett and Anders were talking with Varric, neither looking her way. Isabela had replaced the unfortunate girl who'd been having her feet stepped on, and was giving Keran a lesson in dancing. The pirate looked up and gave Bethany the slightest of winks, winning a smile from Bethany before she slipped out the door, into a darkened hallway. It was only a very short wait before the door opened and closed a second time.

Fenris' lines started to glow, just the faintest degree, liming him in blue-white light. "Bethany," he said, voice as dryly formal as always.

"Fenris," she said, and moved the little distance between them, into his arms. The kiss they exchanged was anything but dryly formal, making her tingle from head to toes and wakening a warmth deep in her belly.

"This way," he whispered, and led her off by the hand, through the back passages of the mansion and out to a narrow alley in back of it. She lifted the skirts of her robe in one hand, fighting back a giggle as the two of them hurriedly picked their way along the passageway between buildings, around a corner and up a dilapidated set of stairs, then in through the back gate of another mansion; Fenris' mansion, dark and silent, though the music and hum of conversation from Hawke's mansion could still be faintly heard on the still night air.

Bethany released a relieved sigh even as she released her handful of robe, and stepped closer to Fenris. He drew her into his arms, lowering his head to kiss her, a much longer and far more heated kiss than they'd exchanged back in the hallway.

"We don't have very long," Fenris reminded her, quietly.

She nodded, and followed him into his mansion, and upstairs to his room. There was the embers of a fire still smouldering in the grate, and he quickly lit a spill from them, then moved around the room, lighting the candles that stood in clusters here and there. He'd changed the bedding, she could see, smooth clean sheets replacing the usual rumpled nest of them.

When he was finished with the candles, filling the room with a soft golden glow, he came and stood behind her, his arms closing around her waist and coming to rest on the fastenings of her belt. He kissed the nape of her neck lightly. "May I?" he asked, voice as formal as always.

"Yes," she said, answer barely louder than a breath, and stood quietly as he undressed her, a piece at a time – belt and mantle, over-robe and under-robe, breastband and stockings and smalls, carefully folding and putting aside each item as he removed it, until she stood naked before him. He touched her, then, delicate, almost hesitant touches, fingertips and lips ghosting along her skin, leaving heat and goosebumps in their wake. He moved around to in back of her again after a while, pressing himself up against her, one hand pressed lightly on her belly, pulling her snugly enough against him to feel his excitement through the tight leathers he wore, his other hand sliding down between her legs, long fingers parting her folds to rub delicately at the moist inner tissues.

She gasped, then moaned, legs shaking with the effort of remaining standing as he massaged at her. " _Please...!_ " she finally gasped out. He stopped, then, turning her around to kiss her again, before finally allowing her to help him to undress as well. They moved to the bed after that, and while things were not exactly rushed, Fenris handled her with dispatch, knowing just where and how she most liked to be touched, to be kissed, even nipped – though never enough to leave hard-to-explain marks – and well before their hour was up she came, as he did, shuddering and crying out, sound muffled against a pillow, his deeper cry a hoarse sound he tried to contain but couldn't quite.

She wished she could linger, that they might cuddle for a while, just enjoying each other's company, but that was not something they had time for. They washed, instead, a matter of damp clothes and a shallow basin of water, then redressed. She quickly neatened her hair with a broken-toothed comb from among the detritus on the mantle, then he took her back to her brother's home, along the same narrow alleyway. They kissed one last time in the hallway, then he headed back to his own place while she slipped back into the room, no words of affection or promises of next time exchanged; neither of them knew how long this relationship might last, or even if it _would_ last.

They enjoyed what moments together they could steal; it was all they could do, right now.

* * *

**Zevran/f!Warden – Meeting Again in Kirkwall**

"My warden," a familiar voice said from the shadows overhead, too quiet to be heard by anyone but her. "I am surprised to see you here."

Katy managed not to smile, merely crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, watching the Hightown marketplace – still busy despite the late hour – from where she stood at the railing of a raised patio area overlooking it. "Zevran. You took your time."

"My apologies, my dear, I thought I would catch up with you much sooner than this. Did you miss me?"

"A little," she admitted.

"Where are you staying tonight? At the Hanged Man with Isabela, or...?"

She did smile, at that. "No. I haven't told her I'm here. She has too many local entanglements at the moment. I've rented rooms near the docks," she said, and quickly described their location.

"Ah. I will meet you there later then," Zevran said.

She heard no sounds from overhead at all, caught no sign of movement, but knew he was gone. She remained where she was, watching the market and waiting for the person she was actually there to contact. Only much later, after her business was done, did she head to the small house near the waterfront, making her way around to the back and up a rickety staircase – rickety enough to warn her of any approach – and let herself into the tiny apartment there.

There was already a small fire lit in the grate, a kettle warming over it. Sounds of splashing came from the adjacent bathing chamber, and the air was scented with the spicy-smelling soap that the elf favoured. She changed out of her armour into a comfortable robe, added tea leaves to a pair of mugs, and was just pouring steaming water into them as the elf came into the room, nude apart from one small towel wrapped around his hips. He was carrying a second towel in one hand, and trails of water droplets were running down his chest and arms from his long loose hair.

"You're dripping all over my carpet," she told him, pointedly ignoring the visual effect he presented, and Zevran grinned, then dried himself off hastily with the extra towel. Only once he'd shrugged into his own robe did she hand him his mug of tea, and exchange an affectionate kiss with him before they each took a seat near the fire.

Zevran sighed in contentment, and smiled warmly at her. "You look well, my Warden," he said.

"As do you," she said, then tilted her head to one side, eyes narrowing. "Though that is a new scar on the back of your hand," she said. "What happened?"

Zevran shrugged. "Nothing much. A minor difference of opinion with a pickpocket in Wycome."

She lifted an eyebrow. "He tried to pick _your_ pocket?" she asked.

Zevran grinned. "No. He caught me picking his. I was foolish and rushed, and missed spotting one of his accomplices. So naturally she was looking just the right way at the wrong time to see me dip into his pocket. A thoroughly nasty little scene, but I escaped with nothing worse than this," he said, lifting the hand, then spread his fingers and studied the scar. "It will remind me to be more careful in future," he said decisively.

"Be sure it does, I'd be hard-put to replace you if you managed to go and get yourself killed," she said dryly.

His grin widened. "Ah, you do care for me then, my dear. I am touched!"

"But not in the way you'd wish to be?" she asked, amused.

"You know me too well," Zevran said, giving her a particularly overdone smouldering look. "In many senses of the word."

Katy laughed, then rose to her feet. "It's late, I'm tired... enough verbal fencing... are you coming to bed, or do you plan to lounge around drinking tea and looking decorative the rest of the night?"

"Hrmm, of the options offered, I do believe coming is the most attractive one," he said, and followed her off.

* * *

**Fenris/Shale/Oghren**

"No, not that way," Oghren said. "Blighted elf. You need a gentler touch."

Fenris lifted an eyebrow, but stepped aside.

"Watch closely," Oghren said.

Shale sighed in pleasure as the dwarf carefully rearranged her crystals. "Much better," she said.

* * *

**Fenris/Merrill – Coping**

Normally he would not have cared at all about the witch; she had made a deal with a demon, and as he had predicted would eventually happen, others had suffered for it.

But he had seen her expression as they made their way back to Kirkwall afterwards, the blankness there, the elf too far gone in shock and misery for her face to even reflect the devastation she felt. Not gloating, or enjoyment, as he'd seen in the faces of the magisters. And he felt the least, the tiniest, stirrings of pity for her. But he did his best to ignore it; her demon was dead now, and she would just have to learn to cope with the horror that she had caused.

When three days had passed without any sign of her, he grew... concerned. A little apprehensive. He tried to convince himself that his fear was for the others, those who counted themselves her friends – Varric, Isabela, Hawke... but as a fourth day dragged by without him seeing and sign of her about, hearing word of her, hearing any mention of her, he knew it was she herself that he was truly worried for.

And so he found himself standing on foot before her door that evening, rubbing the top of his other foot against his calf, uncertain whether to knock, or to go away again and rethink this. Finally he raised a hand, knocked hesitantly at the door.

There was a very long silence.

He was about to give up and go away when the door creaked open a crack, Merrill peering out at him around the edge of it, her eyes reddened from crying. "Oh. It's you. Come in," she said, voice hoarse, and stepped back a little, holding the door wider. "I was hoping you might come by."

He stared at her in surprise, even as he stepped inside. " _Hoping_ I might... Why?"

"To kill me, of course," she said calmly, and stood there before him, arms at her side, back stiffly upright, chin lifted. "It's what I deserve. Best to get it over with quickly," she said, her lower lip trembling just the slightest bit.

"No, Merrill... I'm not here to kill you," he told her, gently, the last shreds of his old hatred for her melting away. How could he hate her, when she so clearly hated herself far more than he ever could?

"Then... what are you here for?" she asked, looking frightened again.

He took her hand, and held it gently. "I've come to help you," he said, as reassuringly as he could. And she _would_ need a lot of help, he was sure, if she was not to fall victim to another demon in her despair. And held her, when she began to cry.

* * *

**Fenris/Anders – You're Stuck With Me**

He seemed to have acquired an elf. He still wasn't sure just how, or why, only that he'd woken this morning to a heavy weight draped over him and found that it was the person he'd have rated least likely to spontaneously appear in his bed. Okay, second least, Meredith having a firm grip on first place. Okay, possibly rather lower than second place, there being any number of templars, blood mages and random citizens of Kirkwall that were arguably even less likely than the quick-to-anger, mage-hating elf to be here, in his cot, on top of him.

At least the elf was still fully clothed, which ruled out one particularly disturbing possibility for why he was even there. Though it did mean he was in danger from the hardened leather feather-shaped spikes that decorated the shoulders of Fenris' armour. And what was the point of those, anyway? Feathers were supposed to be _soft_ , not something that might poke your eye out if you turned your head too suddenly. It's not like they even served any real purpose apart from decoration; if they were metal there'd at least be the chance they might foul a blade that would otherwise take off one's arm (or head), but leather? Even hardened leather wouldn't stand up to a good hard whack from a decently sharp sword.

He moved his head a little – being careful not to poke his eye out on the false feathers – and was rewarded with an almost blinding wave of pain, a hangover to end all hangovers. He groaned, fighting back nausea and wondering just what he'd managed to do the night before to earn it. Vague memories surfaced of a night at the Hanged Man, Justice quiet for once and making no protest while he drank. Of insisting – loudly – that he had to go back home. And someone else protesting equally loudly that he was a fool to chance Darktown after nightfall on his own while drunk. And then... what next... oh, yes – walking. Walking with two people helping him to stay more-or-less upright, neither of them any more sober than he was.

Fenris. Fenris had been one of them. As drunk as Anders was, if not more so, both of them leaning on each other and... Maker, and _singing_ while they stumbled down the narrow poorly-lit corridors of Darktown, some drinking song that prick Sebastian had taught everyone earlier that evening. You were supposed to sing it while passing around a bottle, and drink from the bottle any time a certain line came around, and they sang for what felt like _hours_.

Someone else had been walking with them and singing along, too, while waving a very large sword around. And breaking off singing at least once to tell someone just where they'd insert said sword if that someone did not _back off_. Hawke. She'd seen them both safely to the clinic, as drunk as a noble – well, she was one after all – and then insisted on putting Anders to bed before leaving. Or had she left? He couldn't remember, just Hawke helping him onto one of the cots and ordering Fenris to help her.

The elf shifted position and moaned. Anders winced, as the shift put an uncomfortable amount of weight on his too-full bladder and brought back the nausea which had only just subsided. Fenris moaned again, a pained sound that made Anders suspect the elf had just as nasty of a hangover as he himself did. And then snuggled up against him, like a cat seeking comfort. Anders yelped as the pressure on his bladder and certain other very sensitive bits increased. Fenris froze, then abruptly levitated backwards off of the cot, crashing into the nearby wall and sliding down it land in a heap of gangly limbs and too-wide, frightened eyes at the foot of it.

Laughter rose from nearby; Hawke, sprawled out on the floor. She smiled drunkenly at both of them. "Now _kiss_ ," she carolled.


	37. A Crossing of Ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a piece of artwork I saw on Tumblr this morning, of Saemus and Ashaad. Artwork in question can be seen [here on Tumblr](http://clayblahblah.tumblr.com/post/11336524715) or [here on deviantArt](http://fav.me/d4ckfvd).

There was someone nearby; he could hear the crunch of their footsteps on the sand. Ashaad stepped into the shadow of a large boulder, looking around cautiously. He'd learned already that encounters with others on the Wounded Coast, as it was called, was something to be avoided, not courted. Whether bandits, smugglers, slavers, or Tal'Vashoth, they invariably reacted with hostility, and sometimes with weapons. So far he'd survived all such encounters, but he knew that had been as much luck as skill; and luck could not last forever.

He could hear a voice now; snatches of incomprehensible words carried to him on the fitful winds from offshore. He picked his way carefully along the rock- and wreckage-strewn slopes, until the next little sandy-shored cove came into view. And stopped, puzzled. He hunkered down in the shadow of a jagged outcrop, watching.

A human - a single, solitary human - dressed in the bright soft clothing that human nobles seemed to favour, that gave them such little protection from harm, and had such little utility in its design. A sign of status among their kind, he supposed, that they usually had others to guard their fragile skins, to carry their burdens and care for them. Only this human had no such guards nearby; he was alone, here in the wilds of the coast.

And talking to himself. Words sometimes spoken low and sometimes shouted into the wind, as the man – the youth, Ashaad corrected, realizing abruptly how young the human was of his kind, on the cusp between youth and adulthood – paced back and forth on the beach, at one point stooping down to grab up a handful of small rocks near the base of a boulder. He threw them one at a time with considerable force at a distant rock, with deplorably bad accuracy, shouting a word with each throw, then abruptly turned and tossed all the remaining rocks out into the surf. They vanished, leaving not even spreading circles on the surging waves.

He was angry, Ashaad thought. Furious about something, and having run off to sulk in solitude about it. He felt his lips curve in a slight smile, remembering his own youth, the tempers that had at times overcome him as well, as he made the difficult transition from childhood to adulthood. Strange, to think the humans might have a like phase of existence; but then he'd had very little to do with humans of any age. Perhaps they really weren't all that different from the kossith, save in their appearance and the lack of proper order of their society.

The youth was stripping off his clothes now, almost tearing the bright fabric in his haste. He yanked off his jacket, letting it drop to the sand, then the silky shirt beneath it, letting the wind take it from his fingers. He turned to watch its brief flight, stopped when a thorny bush tangled in the bright white fabric.

The boy's eyes were as bright, Ashaad could see even from here; a bright blue like the sky, like his abandoned jacket. Where the clothing had covered him, his skin was pale, never touched by the sun; a creamy whiteness only a few shades darker than kossith hair, or the discarded shirt. The youth turned away again, sitting down in the sand as he struggled to remove leggings and stockings, leaving him wearing only a scrap of cloth about his loins when he finally rose again.

He was small, and slender, Ashaad noticed, but fit for all of that. There were muscles under that pale, soft skin; small ones, as he was small, but were he kossith he would be considered a well-made being. Not for a warrior, of course, but he was clearly not a warrior, not when he threw so poorly. He had fallen silent, and was merely standing there, feet planted wide apart in the sand, hands clenched into fists at his sides, face turned up to the sky and sun as he leaned into the wind. Like a bird, paused in the moment before taking flight.

And then he moved, as such a bird would have, feet kicking up sand behind him as he ran forward, arms spreading wide. He leapt upwards, as he reached the wet sand where a wave was retreating. For a moment Ashaad half-believed he would indeed take flight, seeing that form straining upwards, then he landed in the waves with a splash, legs still churning as he ran out into the water, the so-short distance to where the sandy beach dropped off into the rock-studded offshore depths. He disappeared beneath the waves.

Ashaad watched, expecting the boy to reappear momentarily. But nothing happened, the sunlit-waves surging over the spot where he had vanished, showing no sign that he had even existed. Ashaad shot to his feet. Surely the man hadn't...?

He ran, then, leaping from rock to grass tuft to sandy patch down the steep hillside, sprinting across the narrow beach where the clothing still lay, the wind toying with the folds of it. He ran out into the water, out to where the youth had vanished, as best as he could remember it. He took three fast deep in-and-out breaths, then a single very large one, and held it. He dove, legs kicking powerfully to propel him downwards, eyes opening to peer through the darkening waters.

There was a forest of seaweed growing beyond the drop-off of the sandbank, outcrops of rock making clearings in it, a scattering of wreckage down there as well. He looked around, seeking for the glint of pale flesh, seeing nothing but dark swaying weeds, dark rocks, and glimpses of sandy bottom. Movement caught his eye – a school of fish fleeing away, their silvery sides flashing. A bubble of air broke out of the depths behind them, rising in a cloud of lesser bubbles. He cursed mentally and dove, down to the source of the bubbles – a pale body tangled in weeds, tough stems and leathery fronds wrapped round and round a feebly thrashing body. He pulled the knife from his belt, wrapping one strong arm around the boy to hold him still while his sharp blade made short work of the stems. He tried not to cut the boy, but freeing him was more important than gentleness. He left the knife to trail behind him on its lanyard as he struck out for the surface again. At risk of cutting himself on that razor-edged blade, but less risky, he judged, than trying to sheath it again.

He exhaled his own air in a roiling bubble just before he himself broke the surface, gasping in fresh air even as he turned over in the water, floating on his back with the limp figure of the young man held close against his broad chest. He kicked to propel himself toward shore even as he wrapped both arms around the boy and squeezed, sending water bubbling out of the boy's open mouth. His skin felt cool to the touch, but Ashaad could feel a heart still beating, felt certain he'd reached him in time.

As soon as he reached the shallows he stood, hefting the slight figure over his shoulders and carrying him toward shore, reassured by the retching sounds the boy made as he coughed and sputtered and threw up the salty water that had filled his lungs and stomach. They reached dry sand at last; Ashaad rolled the boy off of him, collapsing to his own knees beside him in shaky after-reaction.

To his surprise the young man clung to him, like a child to its nurse, holding on tightly, sobbing and babbling in the human tongue in between bouts of coughing and retching that brought up yet more water. Ashaad froze at first, uncertain of how to react, then hesitantly wrapped one arm around the youth, waiting patiently for the tears to pass and the words to slow down to a speed he could understand.

It took a long while, before the youth fell silent at last, still leaning against him, one arm hooked around Ashaad's neck. The wind and sun had dried their skins, Ashaad's hair blowing loose around his shoulders, the unprotected back and shoulders of the young man cradled against him showing the first pink tinge of an incipient burn, before he finally lifted his head, those startling sky-blue eyes looking questioningly up at Ashaad. He cleared his throat, then spoke, voice hoarse from all the coughing and crying. "Why did you save me?" he asked.

Ashaad stared back at him for a long moment. Why? He didn't know. It had been an impulsive act; an intrusive one, too, given that the young man had clearly intended to end himself; that had been no accidental tangle of weeds. He must have swum down, and wrapped the weeds around him, then turned around and around in the water to have so thoroughly enmeshed himself in them. And a foolish act, as well, given that saving the young man had made him responsible for him, an added complication with his existing responsibilities. He answered truthfully, in the end. "I don't know. Why did you not wish to be saved?"

That started the young man crying again, more quietly this time. He tried to speak, but couldn't. Ashaad felt unexpectedly moved by his obvious distress. How hopeless must he feel, to have wanted to end himself? He sighed, and rose to his feet, easily lifting the youth to his feet as well. He had saved him from drowning, but his responsibility was only just begun. Now he must work to save him from whatever this despair was that had driven him to attempt such a terrible act. "Come," he said, as gently as he could. "I have a camp nearby. You can stay with me for a while." He lifted the youth, holding him like a child; like the child he needed to be, however briefly, before he was ready to become a man again.

"What's your name?" the boy asked, wrapping one arm firmly around his neck again as he started away in the direction of his camp. "I'm Saemus," he added, clinging to him with his head resting against Ashaad's shoulder as if seeking reassurance, or warmth, some kind of comfort.

Names were important to the humans, he knew. "You can call me Ashaad," he said.


	38. Ask Box Ficlet 28

**Nathaniel/Anders – Saying Good-Bye in Kirkwall (For The Day)**

If he had known, he would not have helped Hawke.

It was the coat he recognized first of all; the faded teal fabric and beige leather further muted by a coating of the ash that was drifting down out of the darkening sky like dirty snow. A gust of wind stirred the feathers on the shoulders, lifted a few loose red-gold hairs. For a moment it seemed that the mage yet breathed.

He staggered forward, not wanting to believe what he saw. The familiar face, once-beloved, turned sideways against the cold, hard cobblestones, the fingers of one hand dug into the crevice between one stone and the next. He dropped to his knees, barely aware of the jolt of impact, the pain in his knees what would be dark bruises later.

"Anders?" he rasped out, reaching out to touch his hand to one shoulder, then press the backs of his fingers against the stubbled cheek. "Anders?"

Cold to the touch. Dead. He stared dumbly at the body, not understanding. Touched the mage's back again, ran his hand down it in a stroking movement, reminded suddenly of Anders, and how he'd sit and pet that blasted cat of his...

"Anders!" he cried out.

But there was no answer. There would be no answer; no explanation from Anders, except for a stickiness against his palm, and the sight of a small dark-edged hole in the back of the mage's coat. A stab wound, he realized, as he stared numbly at his blood-stained palm.

"Why?" he whispered, stunned.

"Because it was he that destroyed the chantry," a tired voice answered from nearby. He did not need to look around to recognize it; the dwarf. Varric.

"Who?" he asked, hoarsely.

A very long silence. He turned to looked at Varric, the dwarf leaning tiredly against a wall nearby, his crossbow dangling from one hand. " _Who!_ " he shouted, voice cracking with anger and grief.

Varric sighed, straightened. "Hawke," he said, then turned and walked away.

Nathaniel stayed there, unable to understand. Why had Hawke... but Hawke... it made no _sense!_

He gathered up the body in his arms, cradling the mage against his chest, grunted as he rose to his feet. He would take Anders' ashes home, he decided. Back to Ferelden, to the Keep, that the blighted mage never should have left. Before that, there was someone he needed to find, and ask a question of.

But first, there was a friend to say a final good-bye to.

* * *

**Fenris/Anders – Did You Think I Was Going To Just Leave You?**

The last of his will to fight drained from Fenris. He wavered, paling, almost fainting from the shock of it, only keeping to his feet because falling would be even worse. Though he _was_ falling, inside. A fall that might never end.

"I should have known better than to trust a mage," he said softly, the words bitter in his mouth, then lowered his head, shoulders slumping, unable to stand looking at Hawke any longer. He had no hope of beating Danarius on his own; not with the number of reinforcements the Magister had brought along. He'd considered, briefly, fighting anyway, perhaps forcing the mage to kill him, if nothing else. But the chance of that... was small. Vanishingly small. Impossibly small. He was beaten the moment Hawke declined to help him, ignoring the years of help Fenris had given _him_.

All he could hope now was that cooperation would lessen the punishments that Danarius doubtless planned to inflict on him. He stumbled out of the Hanged Man in Danarius' wake, feeling only despair now, even that fading into a general numbness as he walked. He took what refuge he could in the numbness, knowing it would not last. Knowing that Danarius would not _allow_ it to last.

Eventually they reached Danarius' ship. He made a final, fruitless attempt at escape, flinging himself off the quay into the cold waters of the harbour, hoping... hoping for what, he wasn't entirely sure, later. Escape? Unlikely. Death? Denied. He was hauled struggling from the water within moments of diving in. He fought, then, a final desperate struggle that was ignored, Danarius' men hauling him on board the ship with no more concern than if he'd been a hooked fish.

It got very bad after that.

The scuff of bare feet on boards woke him. He remained still, dreading the sound, fearing that it was Danarius or one of his men, returning to torment him further. There was a sharp hiss of breath being abruptly sucked in through teeth. "Andraste's flam..." a voice whispered in horrified shock, breaking off in mid-word.

A familiar voice, one that had no reason to be here. Its presence startled him enough to open his eyes, at least as much as they _could_ open after the beating he'd endured; his left eye was too swollen and gummed together to open at all, his right opened the merest slit. Enough to see that it was, indeed, Anders, dressed only in wet smalls, water dripping off the ends of his hair.

He tried to speak, to ask the mage what he was doing here, but couldn't manage more then a harsh, broken sound.

"Shhh," Anders immediately hushed him, dropping to one knee and cupping his hand over Fenris' mouth while looking around nervously, clearly frightened of being found. With good reason, Fenris thought – Danarius would be entirely happy to capture and enslave an intruding mage, especially one that was a healer.

He pressed his lips together, and Anders removed his hand, then leaned forward, fumbling at the restraints that held Fenris down, spreadeagled and helpless to defend himself. It took him several minutes to undo the ones around Fenris' wrists, before moving to work on the ones binding his ankles. Fenris bit back a whimper of pain as he moved his arms. He suspected something in arm or shoulder was cracked or broken; likely his ribs as well, judging by the pain there.

Fingers probed at his side, drawing a gasp of pain from him.

"Sorry," Anders muttered. "If I help, can you stand? Walk?"

Fenris considered that briefly, cataloguing his pains, then rolled his head from side to side in negation. He more than half-expected the mage to just turn away and leave him there, then. But he didn't.

"This is going to hurt," Anders warned him, softly. "Try to stay quiet."

And lifted him. He nearly bit through his lip, keeping back the cry of pain he needed to make. He must have blacked out from it; they were on deck when he was next conscious of his surroundings, the mage still carrying him in his arms. It could not have been easy, as he was large for an elf; but then Anders was a tall man, and stronger than he looked. The mage somehow carried him silently, moving with surprising swiftness from shadow to shadow along the deck, and to the rail.

And over it.

There was no splash; no impact, just a momentary feeling of dropping, of slowing, and then they were in the water. The mage must have used a spell to cushion their fall. Anders changed his grip on Fenris, moving so that the elf was floating on his back, supported against Anders' chest, then began swimming away from the ship, paralleling the dock, angling toward a distant set of stairs along the water's edge.

"Why?" Fenris managed to whisper, once they were safely beyond earshot of the still-quiet ship.

Anders didn't answer at first; Fenris began to think he wasn't going to answer, and then he did, a low whisper in Fenris' ear between strokes. "Because what Hawke did was an injustice. We could not let it stand."

He might have known. But between remaining in Danarius' hands, or being rescued by a Spirit-driven abomination... he definitely preferred the abomination. He would have laughed, if he wasn't certain it would half-kill him with pain. The one mage it turned out that he could trust, _Anders!_ He let his one good eye close again, and let the mage guide him to shore.

* * *

**Sebastian/Anders – War never changes but we do**

He had promised vengeance. To take the throne of Starkhaven with the sole purpose of returning to destroy the abomination, and any one or any thing that stood between him and his goal. Friendship did not matter when a crime of such magnitude could be committed, and the murderer allowed to live, _helped_ , rather than being put to death.

Sebastian travelled all of three hours toward the city of his fathers before his resolve faltered. He could imagine all-too-easily how Grand Cleric Elthina would have reacted to his plan. She would have been greatly disappointed with him; angry, even.

"Did you learn nothing in all your time here? Did your revenge for your family's death teach you nothing?" Those words, or something similar, would have been what she'd say.

It pained him to think of her, to remember her. Her sense of purpose, her piety, her _belief_ , adamant and incapable of being broken. When she died, if she had time to even realize what was happening – she would have died believing there was _purpose_ in her death. The Maker's purpose, no matter that her destruction had been wrought by an unbeliever.

And perhaps she was right. He had to believe that she was right. That her death was not just senseless brutality, but some subtle move in the Maker's plan. That someday he, or someone else long after his death, would be able to look at the events of this terrible day, and see the pattern they made that furthered goodness, rather than supporting evil.

More likely someone else; he could not imagine ever seeing goodness in the death of that good woman.

He realized he was crying, then, that he had been sitting his horse motionless in the middle of the track for some time. He dismounted, and led the horse off the road, into a small copse of scraggly trees and overgrown bushes. Such growth, rare here on the dry heights overlooking the Wounded Coast, meant there must be water nearby.

He found it, eventually, or rather his horse did, suddenly snorting and lowering its head, pulling off to one side. A tiny pool of water in a small clearing at the foot of a tall rockface, a pool not even a single armspan across, and clogged with fallen leaves. The water overflowed at one side of the little pool, running only a dozen or so feet along a shallow bed of gravel and fallen rocks before soaking back down into the sandy ground.

Sebastian let the horse drink first, then waited a while for the water to clear before kneeling down and drinking from cupped hands. The water was bitterly cold, spring-fed as it was. Once he'd drunk his fill he spent some time in clearing away the leaves, piling the sodden mess well off to one the side. He wrinkled his nose as he cleared the bottommost layers, half-rotted and sulphur-smelling. He'd need to let the spring run clear for a while before drawing any water to cook with, or refilling his waterskins.

He spent the time gathering bits of wood to make a fire, and carefully clearing an area right down to bare ground to light it in. He dug a small pit in the centre, and used rocks and branches to build a low wall between it and the road to hide its light; no sense in advertising his presence here, not when he travelled alone. Not unless he _wanted_ slavers or bandits to find him, which he did not. The fire, when he lit it, was a very small one. He partially filled a pot at the now-clear-running spring, and put it on to heat. He'd make tea first, he decided, digging in his pack for a mug, and then some broth using the dried meat he carried. Grain added to that and left to soak overnight would give him a cold pottage to fill his belly with before moving on the next day.

The grain was soaking, the fire safely out, and Sebastian rolled up in his bedroll for the night when he heard the sounds of someone crashing around in the bushes, making no attempt to disguise their presence. He froze for a moment, suspecting attack, and then realized it was just a single person, or perhaps even an animal, though a beast was unlikely to make such noise. Unless it was a big one, or wounded. He was easing out of his bedroll, not wishing to make any sound himself, when the bushes to one side of the clearing thrashed and parted, and someone staggered into view.

They both froze, staring at each other in equal shock. Anders. The blighted _mage!_

He was not aware of grabbing his knife from where it lay nearby, or of springing toward the man before he could retreat. He had Anders pinned down and his knife held to the man's throat before thought returned. His pulse beat hard, sight gone tunnel-visioned with the rage he felt. It would have been so _easy_ to continue the series of movements that had brought him here, to drag the razor-sharp edge of his knife against that pale column of throat and end Anders' life.

But was he a mere beast, to be ruled by his emotions? Elthina would not approve. He gritted his teeth, hand trembling with the effort of not moving. "Why are you here?" he managed to ask.

Anders closed his eyes, let his head fall back against the ground. "Does it matter?" he asked, voice flat and empty and full of despair. "Just kill me."

He almost did. His hand actually twitched a little to one side, the blade just barely cutting into the mage's skin before he forced himself to stop again. He stared, fascinated, as a thin line of crimson welled slowly out, staining the edge of the blade. So easy... but the easy path was not always the right one; more words of Elthina's. "Why are you here?" he asked again, voice barely more than a whisper. The rage was receding, replaced by a strange calm. Calmness, and a faint dread. "Why are you not in Kirkwall, slaughtering templars at Hawke's side?"

Anders shuddered. Tears began to leak from between his closed eyelids. "She didn't side with the mages," he rasped out, voice hoarse with despair. "She is fighting at Meredith's side. She told me to run, and never come back. And then she went to kill them; all the other mages. Everyone else but me."

Sebastian lay frozen, stunned, mind reeling with the enormity of the revelation, the cruelty of it. "Why?" he whispered, unable to believe it. He had been so _certain_ , when she spared Anders' life, when he stormed off, that she intended to side with the mages.

Anders swallowed, adam's apple bobbing dangerously close to the blade still pressed against his neck. "She said... she said, if there was any last proof she needed that the Chantry was right about mages, that this was it. And she would spare me now, for all I had done for her since we'd first met, but that..." he broke off, a sob escaping him. "That this was the end. If she ever sees me again, she will kill me."

His eyes opened. He met Sebastian's gaze. "Just... kill me. End it. There is _so much_ blood on my hands..."

Sebastian lay there. His anger faded away, vanishing out of him without trace, like water soaking into sand. After a while he moved, slowly, stiffly, shifting off of the mage to kneel beside him, tossing his knife over on top of his bedroll, then resting his hands on his thighs. "No," he said, tiredly.

"No?"

"No," he repeated, and rose to his feet, then bent down to grasp the mage's hand and pull him upright. "There has been too much killing already today. I will not kill you."

Anders' eyes widened in fear, and he recoiled from Sebastian, kept from falling over backwards only by their linked hands. "I would rather die than be made tranquil. _Please_ , just kill me!"

Sebastian shook his head. "No. I will not do that either," he said, and released the mage's hand, leaving him sitting there on the ground. He turned his back, looking up at the star-filled sky overhead. "You must live with your guilt. And perhaps try to atone for it."

He walked over toward his bedroll, suddenly feeling utterly exhausted and completely rung out. "Go, or stay and travel with me, I care not any more. There is food in a pot by the fire-pit, if you are hungry."

He bent down and retrieved his knife and its sheath, wiped the edge clean on a corner of his blanket before putting it away. He sat down, began re-wrapping himself in his blankets.

"Where are you going?" Anders asked after a while, voice tremulous. "To Starkhaven?"

"No. I don't know. Wherever my feet or my horse take me, I suppose."

The mage stayed.

* * *

**Warden Sebastian/Anders/Fenris – Learning the Ropes**

Anders leaned one hip against the table, eyeing the two new recruits. The first, he'd been warned, was likely to be the sort who thought the rules didn't apply to him; noble-born, and not given to following orders. He'd been carousing in a tavern in Amaranthine, after fleeing from somewhere in the Free Marches, when the darkspawn had overrun the city; word was he'd done some rather fine shooting with his bow, saving more than a few lives, before a genlock had evaded his shots and succeeded in taking him down. Not permanently; it died moments later at the end of the Warden-Commander's blade, before it could do more than injure him. When the Commander had later spotted the archer among the wounded, clearly bearing the marks of the taint, she'd recruited him on the spot, ordering him brought back to the Keep and put through the joining. It had saved his life. He was not noticeably grateful for it.

The elf was more of a mystery; discovered half-starved, naked and chained in a cage in the smuggler's hideout beneath Amaranthine. The cuffs and chains that held him there were engraved with row upon row of tiny runes, the metal itself no common metal, but some strange alloy containing lyrium, according to Justice. As did the elf himself, lyrium etched in a network of swirling lines and tiny dots across his skin. He rarely spoke, and that mostly in monosyllables; he'd talked at length to the Commander at some point after his rescue though, and whatever it was they'd spoken of had led him to ask to join. And her to say yes.

The elf looked ill-at-ease in his new Grey Warden armour; the archer had ignored his, choosing to dress instead in the armour he'd been wearing when recruited; a set of shiny white-enamelled plate with gilded edges over a jangling half-coat of scale mail. Anders suppressed the urge to smirk. That shine wouldn't last long; not with a Deep Roads trip in their near future, the Warden-Commander having decided that she wished to establish a Grey Warden base in the thaig they'd found and cleared a couple months ago. It would, she said, be a good place from which to hunt darkspawn, and her brother-in-law was willing to loan her a regiment of the Legion of the Dead to help hold it, if she'd promise to work first of all on clearing the tunnels between the thaig and Orzammar. Which she was willing to do; reclaiming the thaig, making it a working city again, would make it that much easier for the Wardens to maintain a base there. And finding dwarves willing to inhabitant the haunted ruins would be easy; dusters would jump at the chance, if it included an opportunity to rise above their dead-end status.

But that was for the Commander to sort out, not him. He introduced himself, noting the wary way the elf stared at him, and guessing he must be one of those people who thought all mages were abominations waiting to happen. Which some were, he supposed, but _he_ certainly wasn't. Demons weren't his cup of tea; certainly not after seeing what happened to mages who were foolish enough or desperate enough to give in to them. The effects tended to be both very gruesome and very final.

He gave the two his usual speech about the rights and responsibilities of the Grey Wardens, as well as reviewing all the benefits and side effects of being a warden, just to be absolutely sure they'd heard them all.

"Increased strength and stamina?" the archer interrupted at one point, in his pleasantly lilting voice, then grinned. "So we can keep up fighting for longer, yes? And perhaps keep up other things for longer as well, with a properly willing partner?"

The elf's face froze at the archer's words, and he shifted a little away from him. Ah. A mage-hater _and_ a prude. Charming. Why did Nathaniel always stick _hi_ m with the problem children when it came to dealing out the recruit training... well, he knew why, thinking back to what a pain in the posterior he'd been his own first few weeks here. Though at least they were both easy on the eyes. Perhaps once they'd graduated beyond recruit status he might see if either was open to pursuit... though judging by the elf's reactions so far, that one seemed likely to be a 'no'.

He chose to ignore the archer's question for now, and instead finished his speech, then led them off to the armoury to see about weapons. The archer talked constantly while looking over the different bows available, mostly muttering to himself about pull and length and poundage, with occasional comments thrown toward Anders, the elf, and the bored clerk manning the counter – about equal parts charm, flattery, flirtation, compliments and complaints. Words usually accompanied by a wide smile showing off even white teeth.

The elf, on the other hand, remained silent, steadfastly ignoring everyone else while working his way along a rack of weapons; two-handed swords, Anders was surprised to see, most of them as tall or taller than the elf. And was further surprised to see the elf lift one down off the rack one-handed, as easily as if it weighed no more than a blade of more usual size. The warrior examined the blade minutely, resting the flat of it against one armoured wrist and tilting it to the light, then scowled and returned it to the rack without even giving it so much as a practise swing.

"Ahhh, now this is a fine bow!" the archer suddenly exclaimed, the grin on his face eclipsing any previous smile. He ran a hand along the complex curves of it like a man touching his lover. "Is there somewhere I can try her out?" he asked, turning to look enquiringly at the clerk.

She flushed, and gestured at a door in the far wall. "Practise yard out there; dummies and butts, and a set of wands."

"Excellent," he said, smiling warmly at her, then raised an eyebrow. "And arrows?"

"Over here," she said, dimpling, and led him off to a wall hung with arrow-filled quivers.

The elf grunted suddenly, the first sound he'd made, and Anders turned to see him lifting another sword down from the rack; one taller than he was, the blade over a hand-span wide at the hilt, the hilt itself nearly a cubit in length, including quillions and pommel. He gave it the same minute examination as the first, then a very slight smile curved his lips. His eyes met Anders for a moment, the smile changing to a scowl, and he turned away, moving to the end of the rack where the harnesses to carry such great weapons were hung. He leaned the weapon point-down against the wall, rapidly sorting through them and selecting one, then shrugged into it, adjusting the straps and buckles in a very exacting fashion before lifting the sword again. He reached easily back and hung it from the harness, re-adjusted one of the straps, then headed over to the door to the practise yard. It was open, the archer and the clerk having already headed outside.

Anders followed him, and leaned back against the wall by the door, watching the two as they prepared to try out their weapons; the archer stringing the bow and taking position at a mark on the ground a set distance from the butts, the warrior stalking toward one of the practise dummies, reaching back to remove the sword from its hanger.

They were both clearly very good at what they did, Anders found himself thinking a few minutes later, eyeing the tight cluster of arrows at the centre of the target, and the sheared-off remains of the dummy, reduced to little more than sticks, straw, and torn burlap. He certainly wouldn't wish for either of them to be on the opposite side from him in any conflict. They returned to the armoury, where there was paperwork to be filled in, after which he took them upstairs and led them to their assigned room.

"Are there no private rooms?" the elf asked, eyeing the archer warily as he hung his new bow on a set of pegs on the wall, then flung himself down on one of the two beds.

"Only for senior wardens," Anders told him. "Not for recruits. And at that you're lucky that we've enough rooms empty to not need to house recruits in barracks yet; though give it a few years and maybe that will become necessary."

The elf made a face, and a sound of distaste, then stalked over to his own side of the room, removing the sword and standing it in the corner – they'd have to get him a proper stand for it, Anders noted – and looked around, then sat down on the bed.

"Don't the two of you go getting too comfortable, or you'll miss lunch," Anders said. "Come on – I'll show you where everything is."

He started by showing them the location of the garderobe, and then the baths, making it clear that they were expected to bathe at least once a week, summer or winter.

"Preferably more often," he added. "The commander has decidedly dwarven ideas about bathing frequency. They did invent plumbing, after all."

"I am used to bathing daily, when I can," the elf said agreeably, rather to Anders surprise. "Though I prefer to do so in privacy," he added, frowning at the communal facility.

"You can use a basin and washcloth in your own room, if you prefer, just so long as you do stay clean," Anders told him. "You don't have to use the tubs."

"I will be quite pleased to make use of the tubs," the archer said. "Do men and women bathe at differing times, or all together?"

"In different baths; this is the men's one," Anders told him firmly. And mentally agreed with the man's disappointed reaction; he wouldn't have minded communal bathing either.

He led them to the refectory next, where the Keep servants were busy setting up to serve the midday meal. He was in the middle of pointing out the different seating areas to them – the commander and her officers had a reserved table off to one side, while everyone else ate at the long communal tables – when a distraction approached them The Commander's elf, the one who'd show up on the doorstep of the Keep like an importunate cat, and been welcomed like a hero by the Commander. Even Oghren had been pleased to see him. And he'd been allowed to stay, without having to become a Grey Warden to do so.

"Anders! Showing some more recruits the ropes, are you?" Zevran asked, flashing a smile all full of teeth and confidence, then eyed the two, raking his eyes up and down them in a way that even Anders would never dare do himself, no matter how handsome the pair of them were. "I wouldn't mind teaching them something about ropes myself," he added.

The archer looked amused – and _interested_. The warrior did not.

"Go away, Zevran," Anders said. "We're busy."

Zevran turned to him, and smiled, waggling his eyebrows. "I could always show _you_ a little more about ropes, too," he purred, his smile turning into a wicked grin. "Though I am sure that you know almost as much as I about them already, after what Nathaniel was saying. And Sigrun. And Vel..."

"Go _away_ ," Anders told him, feeling his face burn with embarrassment.

Zevran grinned, bowed to him – with flourishes – and sauntered off. Anders turned back to his recruits to find the archer looking even more amused, and the elf so stiff with distaste he looked like he'd been frozen. Anders sighed. "Ignore that elf," he told them. "The rest of us try to."

* * *

**Loghain and Anora – I Never Expected To Hear You Say That**

Loghain came to an abrupt stop, then turned to look at his daughter. "What did you say?" he asked, voice dangerous.

She lifted her chin slightly, mouth a firm line "I said, I think you're wrong. I do not believe the Grey Wardens are to blame for Cailan's death at Osta..."

" _Not to blame!_ They convinced him to take a place in the front ranks of the attack," he shouted angrily, interrupting her. "They supported that travesty of a battle plan he wanted to follow, _allowed_ him to abandon a defensible position in favour of a suicidal charge against overwhelming odds! It is entirely due to their interference that the battle was lot! If he'd listened to _me_..." He broke off, voice cracking, and turned his back to her. His shoulders heaved as he drew breath.

"If he'd listened to me, rather than to that fool Duncan, he might have lived," he continued eventually, voice low and strained. "We might have won the battle that day. No, Anora... whether they intended treachery or not, I cannot say with any certainty, though they certainly attempted treachery once before; in any case, the outcome is the same. We lost. The battle, over half the army, and King Cailan. And I will _never_ forgive them for that."

He did not look at her again, but simply walked away, head lifted, but back and shoulders slumped.

* * *

**Merrill/Warden!Bethany**

"Merrill, you know it's not safe for you here any more. You _saw_ what Hawke did," she began, then broke off, unable to continue, pressing one hand over her mouth as tears leaked from her eyes.

Merrill nodded jerkily, her own eyes bright with unshed tears, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if holding herself together. "I saw," she agreed, voice shaky. "I would never have thought Hawke could do such a thing. I thought they _loved_ each other... but where can I go? My clan is dead to me; they will have nothing to do with me since Marethari's death. I doubt any other clan would be willing to take me in either, after all the foolish things I've done. What do I even have left any more, but the few of you who are my friends, and my home here in the alienage?" she asked.

"You have me," Bethany said unsteadily. "And my friendship. Come away from here with me, Merrill. Come back to Ferelden. I couldn't stand to go away and leave you here, not knowing if you might be the next person Hawke turns on."

"To Amaranthine?" Merrill asked, and smiled tremulously. "I've never been there. We lived in the southeast, in the forest, and took ship from Gwaren when we moved north. I hear it's very flat there, without many trees."

"Out in the Bannorn, yes... it's mostly fields and grasslands there. But there's a woods not far from Vigil's Keep," Bethany said. "And sometimes Dalish pass through. Oh, Merrill... _please_ say you'll come back south with me. Even if you don't stay with me, just so I know you're safe."

Merrill looked around her home, ignoring the distant and sometimes not-so-distant sounds of conflict outside. "I hated this place when I first came here," she said softly, then turned to look at Bethany, and smiled again. "It was you and Hawke that made me feel welcome here; like I could live here. Mostly you. And Varric. I don't like leaving without letting Varric know where I've gone."

"We can leave him a note," Bethany said, blotting at her tears with the back of her wrist now that she was regaining her composure. "And you can write him from Ferelden." She looked around the little house too, seeing how bare it still was, so little changed from when Merrill had first moved in. A handful of books, some dried herbs hanging from the rafters, a few odds and ends of things, most of which Bethany guessed had been given to the elf by other people. She'd never been an acquisitive sort of person. "We should pack your things, and get you out of here. Somewhere safe – the Grey Warden ship at the docks. No one messes with the Grey Wardens. Not even Hawke."

"All right," Merrill agreed, and poked around until she found a sack. She put very little in it; some books, a few changes of clothes, most of the knick-knacks. She fingered one for a moment, a little wooden carving of a halla, then left it standing on the shelf, and drew a thin chain out from underneath her scarf, unclasping it long enough to remove a ring, which she placed on the shelf by the halla. The chain she dropped to the floor. She turned back to Bethany. "I'm ready," she said.

Bethany nodded, then impulsively hugged her. "I'm so sorry," she said softly.

"So am I," Merrill agreed, and hugged her back.

* * *

**Anora, Karl (Advisor) – Is There Ever Anything You Want For Yourself?**

Karl frowned as he slid the latest signed and sealed document out from under Anora's hand, and carefully put it in the leather folder with the rest of its set. It was late, well after dark, and at least the third night in a row that the Queen had still been working when most people would long since have stopped for the day.

"Perhaps you should take a break now," he suggested.

Anora sighed and leaned back in her chair, pressing her hands to her eyes. "Perhaps I should," she agreed tiredly, then dropped her hands into her lap and turned her head to look at the night-darkened window. "Though there is still so much that needs to be done."

"You'll get none of it done if you overwork yourself and fall sick," he pointed out sternly, neatening the stack of folders on one corner of her desk, then leaning down and pointedly blew out the flame of the wax-jack. "You need to take time for yourself occasionally. Get out of your office more; eat properly," he added, turning a disapproving eye on the small plate to one side of her desk, holding an apple core, a rind of cheese, and a few bread crumbs.

Anora smiled. "All right. You can send for a proper dinner, and I'll even take a break from work for the rest of the evening. But you must stay and keep me company."

Karl nodded. It had bothered him, when he'd first been sent to replace the ailing Wynne, how familiarly the Queen acted with him. Only later had he come to realize that she demanded his company because she didn't like to be alone; and more, that she trusted him. As little as trust had ever been a part of his life, he felt deeply touched by her faith in him, and as a result did his best to never betray it. She had his loyalty, and his discretion. And, on Wynne's instructions, rather a lot of mother-henning.

He ordered dinner for them both, and offered her his arm, then escorted her to the small private dining room that she preferred to use. After seeing her seated he fetched wine and glasses from the sideboard, and poured for both of them before taking his seat.

"Have you heard anything from the Tower recently?" Anora asked before sipping from her glass.

"Unfortunately not. The new Knight-Commander seems much more strict about outside correspondence than Greagoir ever was; I've had one short letter from Irving three weeks ago and nothing since."

Anora frowned. "That's not a good sign. I may have to have a word with the Grand Cleric; it needs to be made clear to this new Knight-Commander that I consider mages to still be citizens of Ferelden, and that their rights shall, by and large, be respected and protected."

"Apart from the little one of still having to submit to Chantry oversight and the Circle," Karl said dryly.

"Yes, well, unfortunately I can only change so much at once," Anora pointed out sharply, then sighed, and leaned her head on one hand. "There is always _so much_ that needs doing. And some times I doubt I'll never have enough _time_ to get it all done."

"You must think of yourself more, and less of what work needs to be done," he said softly. "The work will still be there tomorrow. You think always of the wants and needs of your people, of your nobles... you must make time to think of your own wants as well. Isn't there anything you want for yourself?"

Her face went very still. She sat upright, not looking at him, but gazing off at something only she could see. "Yes," she said, voice flat. "I want my husband back. I want my father alive again. I want the children Cailan and I never had," she said, voice cracking on the final words, then closed her eyes. "I want things I can never, ever have. _Please_ do not ask what I want for myself."

Karl swallowed, then, greatly daring, reached out and put his hand over Anora's. "I am sorry, my Queen," he said softly. "I will not ask again."

She nodded. They sat that way, in silence, until their dinner arrived.

* * *

**Isabela, Sebastian and Fenris – A Fun Night Out**

He should have returned to the Chantry long since. But Fenris – a drunken and surprisingly happy Fenris – had pleaded with him to stay, and then Isabela had made great puppy-like eyes at him and trembled her bottom lip. And he'd laughed at her overblown acting, and then smilingly agreed to stay with them. More because he didn't want to end Fenris' joy than because of the pouting lip, he acknowledged silently to himself; something he was sure Isabela understood as well, though she was, thankfully, discrete enough to never give voice to her knowledge.

And it was good. They'd staggered out of the Hanged Man together, and gone to a place Isabela knew down by the docks – she knew every place down by the docks, he was certain – and gamed until late in the night, Isabela losing big and winning bigger; Fenris making small, careful bets and slowly building his horde; Sebastian enjoying more than he should have a brief return to the ways of his misspent youth, enjoying again, at least briefly, the feel of the dice rattling in the cup, the practised snap of the wrist that fanned them out over the table. He won a little, and lost a little, and did not worry about it, enjoying most of all the way Fenris' eyes would light up whenever the elf won a roll.

From there they made their way back up through the city, up the seemingly endless stairs to Hightown. They stopped to catch their breaths halfway up, Isabela and Fenris sitting with their legs hanging out under the bottom railing, arms resting on it, while Sebastian leaned on the top rail, one ankle crossed behind the other.

"It almost looks beautiful like this," Isabela said, gesturing at the city spread out below them, most of it dark, limned with the setting moonlight and touched here and there with the light of torches or lanterns.

"It does," Sebastian agreed.

"Less like a teeming cesspit than usual," Fenris said solemnly, which made them both laugh. They fell silent after that, just gazing out over the near-silent city for a while before resuming their journey.

He had thought they might break up at the top of the stairs, go their separate ways – himself to the Chantry, Fenris off to his mansion, Isabela either with the elf, or perhaps heading off to the Rose.

"Come home with me," Fenris invited as they crossed the dark and empty market. "You can help me finish off a particularly good bottle of wine I opened earlier."

So they did, the three of them sitting in the ruined mansion by a small fire, Fenris slouched in a chair, Isabela sitting on the floor and leaning against the elf's long legs, while Sebastian stretched out nearby, not minding the cold hard floor when he was surrounded with such warm friendship. They passed the bottle round and round, drinking from it directly. He could not help but watch the thoughtless elegance with which the elf did even that, throat curving gracefully backwards as he drank deeply, one arm raised high to hold the bottle. Isabela, he knew, was watching him. He met her eyes, just once, seeing the knowing look there. But she said nothing, and he knew, somehow, that he could trust that she never would. She was surprisingly good with secrets, when they were ones worth keeping.

Fenris was the first of them to flag; handing the bottle to Isabela and then slouching down even further in his seat, eyes drooping half-closed, his slouch becoming a boneless sprawl. Isabela drank off what was left in the bottle, and stood it off to the side. "Come on, time to put you to bed," she said, patting Fenris' knee to rouse him.

They co-operated in that, Sebastian guiding the groggy elf over to the bed, supporting Fenris while Isabela efficiently stripped his spiky vambraces and slipped off his jacket. She stopped short of his leggings; he'd have to sleep in them, or loosen and remove them himself later. They tucked him in, which drew a sleepy smile from the elf. Isabela leaned down and kissed him, when they were done, then looked challengingly at Sebastian as she rose. He hesitated a moment, then bent down and brushed a chaste gift against the elf's temple.

He stood a moment by the bed, memorizing the slight smile on the sleeping elf's face, until Isabela linked her hand into his arm. Only then did he turn away.

"I'll see you home," she said, voice just barely above a whisper. "We can scandalize your fellow religious together."

He laughed, and let her walk him home.

* * *

**Sebastian/Fenris – Nightmares**

He would have been quite happy to do nothing else but lie there and watch Fenris' sleeping face.

It was rare for him to get to spend time with the elf; Hawke more commonly took Varric along on her rambles than he. But the dwarf had been too busy the day before to accompany Hawke, and so she'd asked Sebastian along instead. Sebastian, Fenris, and Isabela. It was supposed to be just a short trip, up into the mountains to the mine that Hawke owned in partnership with an Orlesian merchant, to check on reported problems there. And they'd dealt easily enough with the giant spiders that had taken over the diggings, clearing the tunnels of the great chitinous things. It had taken a while; they'd needed to check the entire mine, to be sure there weren't more of them lurking in forgotten corners. Or eggs sacs left behind, to re-infest the place.

And then they'd learned of the second cave, recently opened, that had proven to be infested with the undead. By the time they'd dealt with that as well, it was too late to make a start back to Kirkwall; they'd had little choice but to set up camp here, at the mine. Not the most salubrious of locations even at the best of times, haunted as it was said to be by the ghosts of the uncounted slaves who had died here, worked to death or slaughtered outright by their cruel masters. An uneasy sort of place.

They had all been very quiet as they'd sat around the small fire they'd built, eating their supper. Even Isabela had not been in the mood to talk, and when they'd retired to their tents – Hawke and Isabela to one, Sebastian and Fenris to the other – there'd been none of the whispered conversation and sudden outbursts of laughter that was normal to the two women. Fenris, too, had been quiet and withdrawn, laying his sword down handy to his bedding and then rolling himself up in his blankets like a caterpillar in a cocoon.

Sebastian smiled slightly, imagining the elf emerging from his wrappings in the morning like a butterfly. Not an image he could ever share with anyone; it was too personal. Besides, the elf needed no metamorphosis to be beautiful. He just _was_. And only at times like this, when he slept, did Sebastian dare to study him. The long straight line of his nose; the smooth curve of his jaw and brow; the lips, so attractively bowed when not thinned in anger or distaste; the fall of his silky white hair over closed eyes, his lashes marking a darker curve against the skin of his cheeks.

Fenris' brow creased slightly, and he murmured something in his sleep, head jerking a little to one side, fingers twitching. A dream, Sebastian supposed. Or perhaps, judging by the elf's increasing fretfulness, a nightmare. He bit his lip, raising his head slightly as Fenris twitched again, moaned, one arm jerking up for a moment as if fending off a blow.

"Fenris," he called softly, deciding that perhaps it would be best to wake the warrior. "Fenris!" A little louder. Then, after a low sound like a heartbroken cry escaped the elf, he leaned over to shake him by the shoulder.

Fenris woke with a cry, scrambling backwards and away from the touch, as much as he could when entangled in his blankets. His eyes were wide and full of fear, his hand reaching for his sword as he struggled to rise.

"Sorry!" Sebastian hastily apologized. "I'm sorry – you were having a nightmare, Fenris. I only thought to wake you..."

Fenris froze, staring wide-eyed at him for a moment, then the tenseness left his body as he sagged back down to the ground. He ran one hand over his face, then frowned, peering across the tent at Sebastian. "Thank you," he said, voice sounding surprisingly, almost eerily calm for someone who had been so panicked just moments before. "It was a kindly thought."

"My apologies for startling you; I should have known better than to touch you," Sebastian apologized again.

Fenris snorted, and lay back down again, wiggling around to re-arrange his blankets. "It is all right," he said. Then, after a brief silence, "Thank you."

They both lay there on their bakcs, awake and not speaking, for some time. Finally Sebastian cleared his throat, keeping his eyes on the tent roof above him. "If you ever wish to speak to someone of your nightmares..." he began, tentatively.

"No," Fenris interrupted him firmly. "Thank you, but no."

"I'm sorry," he said, very quietly, fearing he had overstepped.

Fenris sighed. "No, it is I that should be sorry. It is... I cannot bring myself to speak of it, not even to you."

They did not speak again, yet Sebastian felt curiously warmed by the elf's phrasing; "not even to you". Perhaps his hope that they might at least be friends in time was not entirely unfounded.

* * *

**Fenris/Anders - Did you think I would leave you?**

It was not to his clinic that the mage took Fenris; the elf doubted he could have carried him that far anyway. Instead he found himself being carried down into a tunnel near the docks, then into a small side-room off of it.

"I must go get some medicines and things," Anders said softly as he lowered Fenris to the packed-dirt floor. "And find a better place to hide you; you should be safe here for the time that will take me."

Fenris clutched at his hand and arm, shamed by how frightened he felt at the idea of being left alone here, so dreadfully close to Danarius' ship. "Don't leave me here," he begged.

Anders frowned. "I promise I'll be back. No one will find you here." He pulled his hand free, and hurried out of the room, shutting the crude wooden door behind him. There was a shimmer of magic; the door vanished, the wall seeming solid where it had been. An illusion spell, Fenris guessed. The last shimmer faded away, leaving a darkness that was absolute; he heard a single faint scuff of footstep against floor as the mage walked away, leaving him there. His bit his lip to stop himself from crying out in panic at being so abandoned. He could only hope that the mage would return for him before Danarius discovered he was gone, and started to search for him

He began to shiver after a while, both with fear and from the chilly swim through the cold harbour. The room was cold too, leeching away whatever heat was left in his body; he could feel the shaking worsening, hear the faint rattle of his teeth as he shuddered. It hurt, every quiver and shake making his injuries protest. Yet he could not calm himself, only just managing to keep himself from panicking entirely.

Every faint sound that penetrated as far as the room filled him with fear. He imagined all too easily that it was Danarius and his guards and thralls, following his trail. That any moment the door would be blasted open, and him dragged out into the light of torches, taken back to the ship, punished even more cruelly. He wished he'd thought to beg the mage for a weapon, poison, _anything_ that might allow him to kill himself rather than being taken captive again.

When there was a sound that was definitely from right outside the hidden door, he had to bite his wrist to keep himself from whimpering aloud. The illusion of wall vanished soundlessly, the door re-appearing, faint light shining through the gaps between boards and frame. "It's me," he heard Anders whisper, then the door opened.

There was more than just the mage there; he gasped in fear as several cloaked forms entered the room.

"Don't worry, sweetness, this is a rescue," a familiar voice said. Isabela.

Someone else cursed; not words he'd ever have expected to hear from Sebastian's mouth. He relaxed, realizing he was among friends. Though not able to relax entirely; he'd thought Hawke was a friend, after all.

Anders crouched down beside him, and set to work with potions and bandages, and judicious use of his healing powers. "We need to get him away from here," the mage said calmly. "It can't be much longer before that magister discovers he's missing, and then he'll turn this place upside down looking for him."

"He may have other problems," Sebastian said, voice warm with satisfaction. "After Varric sent me word of what had happened, I took the liberty of sending an anonymous message to the Gallows. I doubt the Knight-Commander will be slow off the mark once word reaches her that there's a magister docked in her harbour."

Isabela laughed, softly. "That just might keep him busy," she said approvingly. "We'd still be best off putting some distance between us and him, however; he might prove more of a mouthful than even Meredith can swallow. The problem will be coming up with somewhere to hide Fenris that Danarius can't reach. Nor Hawke," she added, voice suddenly bitter. "I don't trust him any more. Especially not after tonight."

"I had an idea about that," Anders said quietly. "The tide should be turning soon... and you have a ship, Isabela."

"Take me to sea, you mean?" Fenris asked.

"Yes," Anders said. "Sebastian, give me a hand here – I need to wrap his ribs."

He hissed between his teeth as Sebastian slipped an arm behind his shoulders and helped him to sit upright. The mage quickly began strapping his ribs, aided by Isabela, who knew more than a bit about first aid as well.

"And take him where?" Isabela asked as she and Anders passed the roll of bandage back and forth around Fenris' middle. "I can hardly bring him back here later; it's no longer safe."

"Amaranthine," Anders said firmly. "We can go to Vigil's Keep; I'm still a Grey Warden. I'm sure the Warden-Commander will chew me out, but she'll get over it, eventually."

"We?" Fenris said.

"It's not safe for any of us any more," Anders said, and looked at the other two. "You know the only reason he didn't turn you over to the Arishok was because he liked the idea of the duel Fenris proposed more, Isabela – how long until he finds some other reason to betray you, as he has Fenris? And you, Sebastian – you know Hawke hates and distrusts everything to do with the Chantry. I doubt you can trust him any more than Fenris could."

Sebastian pressed his lips together. "I should stay here. I mis-like recent events here in Kirkwall; it seems to me that the place is ready to explode at the slightest spark, like some of the qunari's gaatlock powder. If only..."

"'If only' won't help you if Hawke turns on you," Anders said harshly. "Look, at least help Fenris to escape; he's injured, worse than I can heal right now. He'll need help getting to the Keep. Carver is there, he'll be glad to help the two of you – there's no love lost between him and Hawke. Once you've seen him safely there you can return, if better sense doesn't make you decide to stay well away. Or go retake Starkhaven, which sounds a much safer plan to me than you lingering anywhere near Hawke."

"Won't you be coming too?" Fenris asked, reaching out to grasp Anders' arm. "You said 'we'."

Anders pressed his lips together. "Not right away. There's something I need to do first, before I leave Kirkwall. I'll be fine – Hawke still trusts me."

"And if he guesses it was you that masterminded Fenris' rescue?" Isabela asked softly.

Anders shrugged. "I'm a mage, and a Grey Warden – and damned hard to kill. I'll join the two of you at the Keep later," he said, turning to look at Fenris and Sebastian, before gently disengaging his arm from Fenris' hold.

"You keep saying two," Isabela pointed out dryly. "Are you assuming I won't be there?"

Anders grinned at her briefly. "What, and leave the sea and your ship?"

"Bah, you know me too well," Isabela said, pouting for a moment, then smiled. "All right – it sounds as good a plan as any. I'll take Fenris and Sebastian to Amaranthine, and then I'll come back here to pick up you. You _are_ coming, aren't you, Sebastian?"

It was clear by the expression on Sebastian's face that he was torn. Then he looked at Fenris – bruised, bloody, and bandaged, and not even able to walk – and sighed. "All right," he agreed. "Though I plan to return once I've seen our friend to safety," he said, smiling warmly at the elf.

"Good, then let's get Fenris to Isabela's ship, now. I should have time to set his arm there, before you leave dock."

"And if not, I know how to do that," Isabela said. "Come on," she said, rising to her feet.

Sebastian and Anders shared the burden of carrying Fenris, supporting him in their linked arms. It was a lengthy and nerve-wracking journey from the tunnel to Isabela's ship, made more tense by a sudden outburst of noise from the direction of Danarius' ship.

"Sounds like the templars have found him," Isabela said, voice rich with satisfaction. "Excellent idea of yours, Sebastian. Come on, I'd like to get clear while everyone is thoroughly distracted," she added, hurrying them along to where her ship was docked.

The tide was already starting to turn when they reached it; Anders surrendered his share of the burden to Sebastian at the foot of the gangplank. "You'll have to look after Fenris' arm, Isabela," Anders said, sounding regretful. "See he gets safely to the Keep, Sebastian."

"I will," Sebastian promised.

Anders turned and started to leave.

"Wait!" Fenris called, reaching out after him. The mage turned, then walked back over, looking at him questioningly. Fenris caught his hand, and squeezed it tightly, wishing there were words to express how he felt. Yesterday he'd have said he and the mage hated each other, that there could never be any trust between them; that Hawke was the only mage he could trust. Now... he shook his head. "Thank you," he said, voice rough with everything he couldn't find words for. "Don't be too long in following us; I will worry until I see you safe in Ferelden too."

Anders smiled, crow's feet crinkling at the corners of his eyes. "Don't worry about me," he said, lightly. "I'll be fine." He squeezed Fenris' hand in turn, then stepped back. He stood there a moment, watching while Sebastian turned away and carried Fenris on board, Isabela in their wake, then lifted one hand in farewell before finally turning away.

The last sight of him Fenris had was of the mage disappearing into the darkness of a nearby alleyway.


	39. Ask Box Ficlets 29 - Fembruary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February was a month for writing about female characters, the feminine viewpoint, and f/f relationships over on Tumblr. Here's the prompts I filled over the course of the month.

**Anora/Bethany**

She had hoped they would go to Gwaren, but they went to Lothering instead. She missed Gwaren; her old room, her own bed, the servants and guards she'd grown up with. Her mother. Though mother was not there any more; mother was dead.

She wasn't sure why they'd come here, at first, this tiny town built where the west road and the old Imperial Highway met. It wasn't much of a place; just a few houses, a chantry, a small manor perched high on a hill overlooking the lake. An old mill; an inn. Some farms.

"I grew up near here," father said quietly when she asked, sitting his horse and looking around, eyes slightly unfocused, as if not seeing what was here now, but something else; some distant memory. He gestured toward the forest. "Do you see that tall hill over there? The bald one. Your grandfather died there. He's buried there."

She stared at the hill. It meant nothing to her; father spoke so rarely of his past. And yet... it did mean something, that he was speaking of his past _now_ , that he had brought her here instead of any of the places she already knew. "Will we go there?" she asked after a while.

"Later. Tomorrow, perhaps. It is too late in the day now. Come; best we go on to the inn now."

She nodded, and kneed her own horse to follow after him. A pretty little golden-brown mare, a gift from Prince Cailan, she'd been told, though she suspected it was really from her father and King Maric, Cailan being more the sort of boy to give her frogs, or dripping smelly water lilies filched from the pond in the palace grounds. Though he'd given her a rose once, after she'd been crying one day and told him she missed Gwaren, and her mother's rose garden there. It had been blown, half its petals already dropped, the rest fading and brown-edged, but it had made her smile, proof as it was that he'd actually listened to her, and thought to please her. She still had one of the petals, kept safe in a little box of keepsakes in her room.

The inn was small and not very pleasant, the rooms small and dingy, most of the windows of oiled parchment, rather than the glass she was used to. They took two rooms; a large one with a four-poster bed for father and a trundle bed for her, and a smaller room next to it for their guards. The place smelled, of rancid cooking oil and old chamberpots.

"May I go outside?" she asked, wanting to be where the air was at least somewhat fresher.

"Take a guard," father bade her. So she did, not even minding too much the looks it gained her as she walked around, looking at things. She was used to having guards; used to being stared at.

It was a market day, she saw, a cluster of farmer's carts and merchant's waggons pulled up in the small square outside the chantry walls. She walked over the little stone bridge between the inn and there, and walked around, looking at what each person was selling. Vegetables, mostly, and bags of grain or flour. One fat old woman had wicker cages full of live fowl to sell – mostly ducks and pigeons, a couple of chickens too old to lay eggs, a large goose that hissed threateningly at anyone who stepped too close to its cage.

There was a man there selling fruit, baskets of lovely ripe apples, the air perfumed with their scent. She stopped to take in a deep breath of the smell, one of her favourites. She wanted to buy some, she decided, to take back to the inn and share with father; he liked apples almost as much as she did. The farmer selling them was busy serving a townswoman; she waited her turn.

There was someone staring at her here too, she realized, peering at her from behind the farmer's legs; a girl, a little one, sucking on her fingers, her other fist holding tight to the cloth of her father's leggings. She had brown eyes and black hair, and was wearing a dress of coarse cloth dyed a pretty blue, with embroidery all around the neck opening and the hems of sleeves and skirt. A nice dress, for a farmer's daughter, a go-to-town dress, not for everyday wear. She smiled at the girl, who smiled back, then looked up at the farmer, tugging on his leggings. He looked around, his bargaining done, then the girl removed her hand from her mouth long enough to gesture with saliva-moistened fingers at Anora. The farmer glanced at her, at the guard behind her, then focused on her again. "Yes? You wish to buy something?" he asked.

He had a nice voice, deep and mellow, almost as nice as her own father's voice. "Yes, please," she said, and dug into the little pouch at her waist. "A penny's worth of apples."

"The red, or the green?" he asked, as politely as is she was a fine lady. Which she supposed she was, really; she'd be Teyrna of Gwaren someday, after all, and maybe even Queen of Ferelden, if her father and King Maric had their way.

"May I have some of both, please?" she asked; she liked the sweetness of the red apples, but she knew her father preferred the crisp sourness of the greens.

The farmer nodded, and counted out apples; two each of the red and the green, into a little handle-less basket roughly woven of rushes. He was about to pass it over when the little girl tugged on his leggings again. He paused, and looked down at the girl, and when she tugged again, bent down while she whispered behind her hand into his ear, before giving Anora a shy smile. He smiled fondly at the girl, then carefully handed the little basket to her, and stood back while she came forward and offered it to Anora. Anora smiled warmly at her as she carefully accepted it, and handed her the penny. The girl curtseyed, and then fled back out of sight behind her father. "My daughter Bethany is shy," the farmer said. "And she thinks you are very pretty; like a princess from a fairy tale, she said."

Anora smiled, pleased. "I think she's very pretty too; that's a lovely dress," she said gravely, addressing the second comment to the single eye she could see peering at her from behind the farmer's legs. The girl giggled, and hid her face again.

She nodded her head to the farmer, and headed back to the inn, carrying her purchase. Strange to think how little difference there was between her and the farmer's girl; that might have been her, had her grandfather and father stayed farmers instead of becoming rebels. She would have to get her father to tell her more about what had happened back then; about how he'd met King Maric, which she knew had happened somewhere around here, and about what had happened to her grandfather. Tomorrow, perhaps, when they went to the hill he'd pointed out. He might be in the mood to talk of it then.

* * *

**Isabela/Merrill – Broken**

Getting in the house was the easy part, even with the door barred, no windows, and a chimney too small for Isabela to enter by. Not that she would have entered by the chimney anyway, even if it had been large enough; they were usually filthy, and hot, and even when not blocked with grates partway up, tended to feature a too-warm greeting at the bottom end. No, there were easier ways to do things, especially in poorer areas like the alienage, where large gaps tended to exist between door and jamb, or even between the planks of the door itself; a few minutes quiet work with a very small, very sharp saw put paid to the bar, and then she was in.

The front room was empty; the fire out. Not just out, but long-cold, nothing left in the grate but ashes. Barely warmer inside than out, and it was blighted cold outside. Almost as bad as Ferelden, a cold front having moved in from the south while they were on their way back from Sundermount. They'd all been well-drenched by the time they reached the city gates.

She regretted, now, that she'd let Hawke talk her into going home with him. It was only later, after a hot bath in Hawke's big bathtub – big enough to share, which they'd done – and a tumble or two in his big four poster bed, that she'd begun to worry about Merrill, her thoughts turning to her friend as she lay in bed beside Hawke, listening to him snore and thinking how much she liked him. As big and friendly and loyal as those dogs the Fereldans loved, and almost as hairy as one too; her own personal mabari. He'd even killed a qunari for her, and not just any common qunari either. He's slain the Arishok in single-combat to keep her safe.

And yet... and yet, she kept remembering the look on Merrill's face, after Marethari died. The way she only grew more still when Hawke talked her clan out of killing them all, how silent she'd been the whole trip back.

She found herself slipping silently out of Hawke's bed, pulling on her clothes – dried and warm from hanging before the fire, though that wouldn't last much beyond the front door – and kissing him on the forehead, before slipping out of his room, out of his mansion, and out into the cold Kirkwall night. A long trip, and a dangerous one, all the way from Hightown down to Lowtown on her own, and through the darkened, empty streets to the alienage. As many times as Hawke and his friends had killed off the street gangs and cultists, more rose to take their place, like turds floating to the surface in a sewer. But she was smart, and careful, and took to the roofs once or twice, and made it all the way without incident.

And now... the house was quiet enough she might have thought Merrill elsewhere, had it not been for the bar on the door. She walked soft-footed down the hallway to the room, barely larger than a closet, that Merrill slept in. And stopped in the open doorway.

"Oh, _kitten_ ," she said, voice cracking on the words, as she looked at the form curled motionless on the floor by the empty wooden frame, surrounded by shards of mirrored glass and a pool of blood. She knelt carefully, and uncurled the cool fingers, removing the long splinter of glass from the elf's grip, hissing through her teeth at the sight of the deep gashes it had left in Merrill's fingers and palm, the matching deep gashes in the elf's wrist.

She bit her lip, blinking back tears, and regretting... and froze, then carefully touched bloodied fingertips to the pale column of throat. The faintest flutter against them; the slightest stir of breath.

She cursed, then moved quickly, taking only the time to yank the scarf from around her hair and roughly bandage and prop up the bleeding wrist, and then she _ran_ , out of the alienage and down to Darktown, careless of her own safety now. Only let her be in time, let her get Anders back in time, let it not be _too late_...

Merrill would not thank her for it, she knew. But she could live with that.

* * *

**Leandra/Lady Elegant – Potions/Poison Making**

She felt jealous the moment she spotted the other woman across the crowded room; so beautiful and so fashionable, her platinum blonde hair styled just so, her lovely pale blue dress fitting her so perfectly, with just exactly the right amount of lace. Not quite Orlesian in style, but then being too Orlesian in dress was considered as large a faux pas in Kirkwall high society as not being Orlesian enough.

Leandra bit her lip as she turned away, remembering how as a child she'd loved attending these salons; back then they'd been a special treat, a rare occasion to accompany her mother in adult society. She'd be carefully dressed and coiffed, and would sit quietly in a corner, her back very straight and feet flat on the floor, listening while the adults talked. It had seemed the best thing in the world, back then, a place where she was given delicate porcelain cups of sweet milky tea to sip, along with a plate of exquisitely decorated pieces of cake, or crisp spiced cookies, or thin crackers topped with bits of food so beautifully arranged it seemed a crime to eat them. And the old women would praise her manners and her beauty, and speak of what a fine marriage she'd doubtless make some day... after which, of course, she'd join them in their enchanting salons.

Not as enchanting now that she was one of the old women herself, and a decided unfashionable one at that. She'd overheard enough purposefully too-loud comments to know that she was regarded as terribly old-fashioned, with no conversation and no useful connections, and terribly _provincial_ as well, after all her years abroad in Ferelden among the dog lords. Not that she'd married a lord, no... and there the conversations would always turn to hushed whispers and side-long disapproving looks. She was, she knew, seen by most of Kirkwall society as of no use save as a salutary lesson to point out to their own well-bred daughters; the shame and loss of station that came of following one's heart, rather than one's parents more well-thought-out decisions.

Her thoughts were distracted enough that she failed to note the approach of their hostess, Lady Chantelle – a dear friend in her childhood, and one of the very few who had welcomed her return to Kirkwall society. It always startled her to see her friend, so changed from the delicate beauty of their long-gone youth, now a stout and matronly woman, yet with much the same high sweet voice and warming smile, and the same charming way of giving her hand an extra squeeze in greeting.

"I am so pleased you could join us today, Leandra," Chantelle said, with such _honest_ welcome that it closed her throat for a moment; Maker knew she saw very little such welcome anywhere else these days. "Come, I want you to meet another friend of mine; I think you would like her very much," Chantelle said, and slipped their arms together, drawing her across the room arm-in-arm in the same endearing way she'd had when they were young girls together.

Leandra was startled to realize it was the younger beauty she'd noticed before and been jealous of that she was being taken to meet, and glanced hesitantly at Chantelle, but her friend was smiling as warmly at the woman as she had at Leandra.

"Lady Leandra, allow me to introduce you to Lady Elegant; a dear friend and recent relation. She's wed to my cousin Kyle."

That made Leandra blink. Kyle – Lord Kyle now, his father having passed away years and years ago, shortly after Leandra had fled Kirkwall with Malcolm – was an _older_ cousin of Chantelle's. Considerably older; why, he'd be a white-haired and bent old man by now. Yet this youthful beauty was his _wife?_

"Charmed," Leandra said, automatically bowing her head in greeting.

Lady Elegant smiled. A surprisingly pleased smile, in fact. "As am I," she said, and Leandra felt another stab of jealousy, the woman's voice being as lovely as her appearance. "I am so pleased to finally meet you; I can see where Bethany gets her beauty from."

That made Leandra freeze in shock for a moment; how did this woman know _Bethany_ , who had been taken off to the Gallows before Leandra had even moved back to Hightown? "You... know Bethany?" she asked hesitantly.

"Of course! And your son Garrett, as well," the woman said confidingly. "You must be very proud of him. Such a handsome man, and so well-spoken."

"Yes, I am," Leandra answered faintly. "How is it that you know...?"

"Dear Chantelle, I do believe Lady Dulci is signalling for you," Elegant said, nodding her head to a different part of the room. Chantelle turned away, saying a distracted farewell to them both, and hurried off to see what Dulci wanted. Leandra found herself being deftly led off arm-in-arm by Lady Elegant, taken to a quiet corner of the room. Only once they were seated did she manage to free her arm from lady Elegant's grip, and give her a questioning look.

"Sorry, but some things are best spoken of where we're unlikely to be overheard," Elegant said, and smiled. "Few of Chantelle's friends are aware of my low beginnings, and I'd prefer to keep it that way, you see. They think I'm just a well-off merchant-apothecary who managed to land Lord Kyle on the basis of a pretty smile, a deft hand with the medicines his age requires, and his need for an heir since his son managed to get himself killed three years ago."

"And... you're not?" Leandra hazarded.

Elegant smiled, showing teeth. "That and more. When I tell you that Garrett and Bethany were both among my best customers, and that Athenril is both my largest customer and one of my chief suppliers, why, I'm sure you can guess that the products I produce in my still-room and sell at market are more than just cold creams, perfumes, and the occasional minor remedy for household illnesses, yes?"

Leandra stared at her for a moment, and then nodded slowly. Her daughter the mage, her son the rogue, Athenril the smuggler... _she_ knew what sorts of potions and poisons they'd be most likely to buy from an accomplished apothecary. "Yes, I imagine I would," she agreed, not without a little fear.

Elegant patted her hand. "Don't worry, it's not because of them I wish to speak to you. Well, or at least not _entirely_ because of them," she said, a momentary frown creasing her brow. "You see, Bethany used to help me sometimes, with the compounding, before I married my darling Kyle and moved to better quarters. A pity she ended up in the Gallows; I wouldn't have minded taking her on as an apprentice; she had a good hand. She mentioned more than once that her mother had trained her in the still-room arts..." Elegant trailed off, lifting one eyebrow at Leandra.

"Why... yes, I did. Not as much as I might have wished, of course, proper ingredients and sufficient time to compound them being hard to come by during our years abroad."

Elegant nodded. "Yes, and of course it's no longer fashionable for daughters to be trained in such arts; too much like a _trade_ , don't you know."

Leandra had to laugh, recognizing the phrasing and the brief sour expression on Elegant's face to be a very accurate impersonation of one of the more fashionable ladies of Kirkwall.

"It's a trade that made me my fortune, however," Elegant continued, dropping the impression. "And a good part of it from selling to the high-born the very recipes their own mothers and grandmothers and maiden aunts once made for household use. My dear Chantelle has very graciously shared with me some of the recipes she herself had from her mother, but she – and others – have spoken more than once of some particularly fine concoctions that were recipes exclusively of the Amell family. Your mother's rose-scented cold cream, that she sometimes gifted to special friends, and the like."

Leandra began to see the light. "And... you wish to learn my recipes?" she asked, eyebrow arching questioningly.

" _Yes_. The rose cream, the lilac perfume, the particular spice mixture she and your grandmother used to make up to be used in a hot lemon toddy for those with the cold... there is a market for all of them, both here and possibly even into Orlais, where I have contacts."

Leandra's mind raced. "Do you wish the recipes outright, or merely the right to use them?"

Elegant smiled again. "You _are_ a smart one. I'd prefer outright, but I'll settle for the right to use them, with you receiving a small royalty on every bottle and jar sold."

"And would you pay a larger royalty, for the right to use the Amell name or crest on them?" she asked hesitantly, remembering something she'd once heard Varric saying laughingly to Garrett.

Elegant's smile widened. " _Very_ shrewd. And yes, I believe I would."

Leandra sat and considered for a moment. Should she? The recipes were one of the very few inheritances she'd ever had from her mother; she might have passed their secret on in time to Bethany, but... what use would they be to her girl, locked away in the Gallows as she now was, only allowed access to a still-room under rigidly controlled circumstances to compound medicines and potions for the Tranquil to sell? Garrett was unlikely to care for the recipes either, nor whatever bride he ever took – if he ever did take one at all. If she shared them with this Lady Elegant... it would at least mean a small private income of her own, separate from whatever monies Garrett thought to give her out of his own ill-gotten gains.

"I believe we might at least have a basis for further conversation," she said slowly.

Elegant nodded. "Excellent. Why don't you come visit me tomorrow morning, and we can discuss it further then. For now I suppose we should resume circulating," she said, and rose to her feet, waiting for Leandra to rise as well and then drawing her out into the crowded room again.

She spent the remainder of the afternoon in Elegant's company, and was surprised, by the end, to realize she'd actually enjoyed herself. The woman had a sweet smile and a tongue like honeyed acid, and a sense of humour that Leandra's mother would have termed scandalous, but which Leandra found oddly comforting, it marching much in mind with her own thoughts on the flowers of Kirkwall society.

As she walked home afterwards she found herself hoping that they would have a real friendship, not just a business relationship. She found herself thinking wistfully of how much she'd always enjoyed the time spent working in a still-room, learning at her mother's side in Kirkwall, and later helping Malcolm in Ferelden, and teaching Bethany as well. She wondered if Lady Elegant might be interested in taking on a partner to help out in the still-room; it would have to be done very discreetly of course, she didn't want rumours circulating that she _worked_ , especially if it involved making poisons. But... it would be a pleasant occupation to help pass her days with.

They would certainly have much to talk of the next day she thought, feeling pleased.

* * *

**Isabela/Leliana**

"Sister Nightingale." A voice from the shadows, warm with amusement. She spun, hands reaching for her daggers, then froze, half-crouched, as she recognized the voice, even before the woman it belonged to stepped out of the shadows.

"Isabela," she said, and rose, glancing quickly around. "Are you alone?"

The pirate shrugged, the movement causing interesting motions within the tight white sleeveless shirt she wore. "Alone enough," she said, and pouted slightly. "Not pleased to see me again?"

Leliana chewed her bottom lip for a moment, then shrugged and straightened, releasing the hilts of her daggers and letting them ease back into their sheaths, thoughts turning inexorably back to an extremely pleasant night in Denerim, many years ago, on this woman's ship. "That depends on why you are here. Why have you sought me out?"

Isabela shrugged again, and took another half-step closer. "Why, to see more of you, of course. It was such a pleasant surprise to hear your voice again earlier this evening, to see your pretty self again – granted not as much of you as I saw in Denerim so many years ago..."

Leliana flushed. "What do you want?" she repeated, her tone full of suspicion.

Isabela pouted. "I begin to think you're unhappy to see me here. How disappointing; I was half-hoping to hear you raise your voice in sweet song within my chambers again."

"That was a special case..." Leliana began.

Isabela's eyebrow arched. "And you regret it now? What a pity; I certainly never have. It's one of my fondest memories of Ferelden. You, me, a very large bed, two handsome young elves..." She trailed off, and sighed. " _Oh_. But I'm forgetting... you misplaced your elf somewhere, didn't you?"

Leliana's expression hardened. "I did not _lose_ Alim. People change. We parted ways"

"But not very amicably, I hear," Isabela said. "Tell me, was it his being an elf that put you off, in the end? Or his being a mage?"

Leliana recoiled as if slapped, face flushing with splotches of angry colour. "How _dare_ you...!"

It was Isabela's expression that hardened now. "Oh, I dare. Zevran was here recently; he happened to let fall a few choice tidbits of information about your time in Amaranthine, before you so abruptly departed from Ferelden, _Sister_ Nightingale. Let me just say that if anything unfortunate should happen regarding templars and Hawke, Merrill or Anders while you're visiting... you'll find yourself singing for me after all. A very short, sharp song. You understand?"

Leliana stared at Isabela, the nodded stiffly. "I understand," she said, voice harsh and clipped.

"Good," Isabela said, and faded back into the shadows.

Leliana watched, try to spot the woman leaving; her ridiculous outfit should have rendered her very visible, even in such deep shade; but she saw and heard nothing further. Only after several minutes had passed and she was sure she was again alone did she draw a deep, steadying breath, calming herself. A pity to have run into the woman again, especially here and now; it quite spoiled her own memories of that marvellous night.

She only considered briefly before turning back the way she'd come; she had little doubt that Isabela would make good on her threat if the woman felt that the bard was a threat to any of her friends. She had neither the time nor the inclination to explain herself and her actions to the woman; it was a long game and a deep one she was involved in. And by the sound of it, Kirkwall was as ready to burst as a barrel of gaatlok exposed to fire; not due to any provocation of hers, and nothing that she could likely prevent, either.

Events would just have to take their own course, without any attempt by her to influence them.

* * *

**Sigrun/Isabela**

The best part about docking in the port city of Amaranthine, Isabela often thought, was the opportunities it offered that so few other cities ever did. Such as the one standing on dockside right now, grinning cheerfully up at her.

"Permission to come aboard!" Sigrun called out.

"Permission granted," Isabela called back, leaning on the railing and watching as the dwarf hurried sure-footedly up the slanted wooden plank.

"I'd hoped you'd put into port while we were here," Sigrun said as she neared the top. "You wouldn't believe what it took to rig the patrol schedule so I'd be leading this one."

Isabela smiled, pleased. "You're not the only warden who can count the days on a calendar, I'm sure," she said.

Sigrun laughed, as she stepped from gangplank to deck. "Yes, well, I'm due to start back to the keep tomorrow, so I think I came damn near to miscounting this time."

Isabela smiled, and bent down to hug the shorter woman. "No, it's my count that's off this trip; we were delayed for two days by bad weather. Though I suppose arriving late does have it's potential benefits."

Sigrun raised an eyebrow. "Such as the fact it means you may be in port long enough to meet two different patrols of wardens?"

Isabela grinned. "Something like that, yes. But why are we talking of other wardens when you're the one that's here now? Shall we stay aboard, or go ashore together again?"

Sigrun wrinkled her nose. "Stay aboard, I think. Just remembering the last time we went carousing together gives me a hangover, and seeing I have to be up early and marching most of the day tomorrow..."

Isabela laughed. "Stay aboard it is, then. I'm sure we can think of something to do to keep ourselves entertained." Sigrun grinned in easy agreement.

She barked orders, sending the cabin boy running off to a nearby inn to fetch back a good dinner her herself and the dwarf, and putting the second mate in charge of the ship for the remainder of the evening – the first mate and half the crew already being ashore – and then led the way back to her cabin. She walked over and crouched down to open the chest that served as her bar, containing numerous tightly-sealed bottles packed in straw to prevent them from shifting around during rough weather. "I'm out of that spiced rum you like. And gave away my remaining bottle of Starkhaven whiskey when I was last in Kirkwall. Hrmm... will you trust me to make a selection for you?"

"Sure," Sigrun said, and came up behind Isabela, peering over her shoulder into the chest, one hand settling on Isabela's shoulder, her fingers squeezing tightly for a moment before loosening again.

Isabela walked her fingertips along from cork to cork, then paused, and pulled out a slender earthenware bottle, coated in a rough cream-white glaze, the cork sealed over with a blob of black wax, glints of gold flecks visible within the wax. "You might like this," she said thoughtfully.

"It looks expensive," Sigrun said.

Isabela chuckled as she rose to her feet. "It is. This is only the second time I've come across a bottle of it. It comes from Laysh, up in the Anderfels, though I'm not sure if they make it there, or if it's something they import by sea-trade from somewhere further to the north-west. I suspect import; they're a dour lot by everything I've ever heard."

"Are you sure you want to drink that with me, then?" Sigrun asked, eyes widening. "That's _far_."

Isabela grinned. "Why not? A special drink to share with a special friend," she said, and put the bottle down on the table, gesturing for Sigrun to seat herself, then went in search of the right sort of glasses to have it out of, settling on a pair of delicate blown-glass goblets whose bowls were small enough that they'd have barely encompassed a chicken's egg. A _small_ chicken's egg. She set them down on the table as she took a seat beside Sigrun, and then drew her dagger, using the tip to crack and peel off the seal. She worked the cork free, setting it aside, then carefully tipped the bottle over the first glass.

The liquid that dripped out was as clear and colourless as water, but with a thick, almost jellied consistency to it, and a strong scent; spicy, though of no spice she could have named. Sigrun drew in a deep, appreciative breath, and smiled.

"Careful, it's very strong," Isabela warned, passing one of the half-filled glasses over to the dwarf. "Sip it and hold it in your mouth a moment before swallowing."

Sigrun nodded, and did as told. Isabela watched, smiling as Sigrun's eyes widened in delighted surprise, before sipping from her own glass. The thick liquid was very sweet and strongly alcoholic in flavour at first, then something in the spice seasoning it began to make itself known; rather like biting into a very hot pepper or some strong horseradish. It began as a tingling sensation that made itself felt throughout the mouth and even up into the nose, burning just enough to cause eyes to sting and water momentarily, and then just as quickly fading away once the drink was swallowed, leaving just a pleasant heat and a lingering sweetness in the mouth.

Sigrun carefully took a second small sip, and smiled after swallowing it. "I like it!"

Isabela grinned. "I thought you might," she said, pleased. "Here, try it this way," she added and took another sip, then leaned over to kiss Sigrun, sharing the heat of the drink along with a rather heated kiss. A kiss that only ended when there was a tapping at her cabin door.

She straightened up, swallowing and then licking her lips, before calling out. "Enter!"

The cabin boy hurried in, ducking his head at them. He was carrying a basket in one hand and a pair of large ceramic jugs in the other. He hastily set them all down on the table, digging in his belt pouch for the change and holding it out to her.

"Keep it," Isabela told him, smiling. He ducked his head again before hurrying out. "Now, let's see what he's brought us," she said, reaching to uncover the basket.

The basket proved to hold bread, already sliced and buttered, a wedge of strong cheese, some small fresh pears, and a napkin-wrapped pile of sweet pastries. The two jugs proved to hold dark ale in one, while the other was filled with stew, made of lamb and vegetables and smelling absolutely delicious. She fetched dishes and cutlery for the both of them, re-corking and setting aside the bottle they'd been sampling and putting out tankards for the ale in its place. She gave Sigrun a generous serving of everything; the dwarf might be smaller than her, but like all Grey Wardens she had a large appetite, and for more than just food.

Isabela took her own seat, running an experienced eye over the food. The bread, stew and ale first, of course, to take the edge off their hunger and thirst... and then they could feed each other bits of cheese and slices of pear, and have a little more of the spicy liqueur. And after that... well, she didn't have a good big bed in her cabin just for decorative purposes. And the liqueur might be interesting to sample there as well, she found herself thinking.

She smiled at Sigrun, and felt warmed by the anticipatory smile she received in return.

* * *

**Morrigan/Anora – Rebellion**

Anora paced along the hallway, pausing at intervals to examine the artworks hung on the walls or displayed on plinths and small tables. She kept her hands decorously clasped in front of her, fighting the urge to twist and pull on her fingers, feeling a brief pang at the memory of how many times her father had chided her over that particular bad habit.

As she turned a corner into another corridor, she was surprised to see she was not the only person so absorbed; a member of the Warden's party was standing in the hallway, gazing up at a large tapestry. The female apostate – a witch, Arl Eamon had said, cautioning her to maintain her distance from the woman. She paused, examining her curiously, from her skirt of black-dyed leather that looked to have pieced together out of salvaged lengths of leather belts, to the halter that draped down her front, only barely more proper in its coverage than outright nudity would have been.

Before she could retreat the woman turned to look at her, her expression cool and composed, her eyes as a bright a gold as a hawk's. Or a wolf's. The woman stared at her for a moment, that gave a very tiny dip of her head in acknowledgement before turning her attention back to the tapestry.

Anora should have been shocked, she knew; as Queen of Ferelden she was due far more than just a silent nod. Instead, she found herself feeling intrigued; the woman seemed completely unafraid, and seemed to have an easy self-assurance that Anora could only envy. She walked down the hallway, stopping beside the witch to gaze at the same tapestry. A woman at a tower window, looking out at a man lying dead in a field below, pinned to the ground with a spear by another man. A very old style, the figures blocky and all of a size, rather than diminishing with perspective.

"I believe that's a scene from the story of Flemeth of Highever," she said.

"Yes," the woman agreed. Morrigan, Anora suddenly remembered her name was. "When Bann Conobar slew her paramour, Osen. Osen was a poet; the sort who recited battle epics from memory, and drank like a fish. A great hairy bear of a man, mother told me once."

Anora looked at Morrigan in some surprise. "I don't recall ever hearing any descriptions of Osen before, other than him being a poet," she said. "Do you know where your mother heard this from?"

Morrigan glanced at her, a slight smile lifting one corner of her lips. "She didn't hear it anywhere. She knew the man; Flemeth is my mother," she explained, then returned to her study of the tapestry.

Anora stared at her in shocked silence for a moment. "You expect me to believe that?" she asked sharply. "That _Flemeth_ , the Witch of the Wilds, is your mother?"

The woman gave her an amused look. "Believe it or do not, it matters naught to me," she said. "Your belief or lack thereof makes it no less true a fact." She turned away and walked a few paces down the hallway, stopping in front of a different artwork, this one a painting of fishermen setting out in the morning on Lake Calenhad.

Anora considered leaving, then followed the woman instead. "If Flemeth is your mother, than why are you here?"

"In what sense of here? Here in Denerim? Because Aedan brought me here. Here in Ferelden? Because this is where my mother raised me. Here with Aedan? At first because my mother wished it, and later because _I_ did, which I hope is a decision she has come to regret; both her choice and mine."

"You do not obey your mother in all things then? Even though she is the Witch of the Wilds?"

Morrigan laughed. "No more than you obey your _father_ in all things," she said, sounding amused, and resumed walking down the hallway.

Anora flushed, taking the point. "I am I suppose in rebellion to my father," she said, feeling her earlier sadness return. "He was a great man once... yet I cannot agree with all his goals, nor how he seeks to obtain them."

Morrigan stopped, and turned to give her a searching look. "I think 'tis rarely easy to be the child of a famous parent; nor of an infamous one either. As you have turned against your father and his goals, so have I turned against my mother and hers. And yet..."

Anora waited. "And yet?" she prompted, when the woman said nothing further, merely standing there with a troubled look on her face.

"And yet there are times I wonder whether, in all my efforts to make my own choices, that the only choices I can make are the ones _she_ allows me. And that in the end, even my rebellion will prove to serve her purposes."

Anora frowned, chewing her lip for a moment. "I'm not sure I understand."

Morrigan sighed. "I fear you do; you just have not thought about it deeply enough. Your father has done much in the last year, in the name of saving Ferelden and keeping you on your throne, many of them terrible things. Tell me, what is the outcome you are hoping for at the Landsmeet tomorrow?"

"Why, to be confirmed as Queen, of c..." Anora broke off, and frowned.

"You see? Even in rebellion you still share many of the same goals as your father. The only real change, as far as I can see, is what means you are willing to use to reach that end."

She walked away, then, and Anora didn't follow her this time, instead standing in the hallway and mulling over her words for some time, before returning to the chambers the Arl had given her for her use during her stay here. It was only later that she ever thought to wonder what goal the Witch of the Wilds might have, that Morrigan found herself both rebelling against and yet fearing she might fulfil.

* * *

**Bethany/Isabela – Silk**

Isabela picked up a silk scarf and shook it out, giving it a considering look, then folded it corner-to-corner and turned, holding it up as if to fasten it around Bethany's neck.

"No," Bethany said, frowning. "I don't like green."

"But you'd look gorgeous in green," Isabela said, then sighed, refolded the scarf and returned it to the stack. "Let me guess. You want red. _Amell_ red," she added, and quickly sorted through the stack, then pulled out two scarfs, both red. Not quite the same red as the Amell crest, one being a brighter, slightly orange-red shade, and the other being too dark, but they were the only red ones on hand. She held them up, one in each hand, and lifted an enquiring eyebrow at Bethany.

Bethany started to reach up, then paused, chewing her lip and looking back and forth between them.

"Choose fast or I'll buy you both of them. _And_ the green one," Isabela warned.

Bethany frowned, tensing, then took the darker red one. "This one. And _I'm_ paying for it," she said obstinately. "I don't want your charity."

Isabela sighed. "I'm not buying it for you out of charity, sweetheart... it's a _gift_. Surely you remember those? Tokens of friendship and affection, freely given..."

Most of the tension left Bethany, and her cheeks coloured slightly. "I'm sorry, I suppose I'm being too sensitive. Thank you," she said.

Isabela smiled warmly at her, then returned the other scarf to the stack. "It's all right, my dear... I can remember exactly how un-fun it is to have no money for anything but the basic necessities, if that. But I _also_ remember just how enjoyable it made it to get something special," she added, as she handed payment to the stall-keeper. "I want this to be a _good_ day for you and I. Some nice happy memories for you to treasure when you head off into the Deep Roads with your brother. All right?"

Bethany smiled back at Isabela with equal warmth, the last of the tension leaving her. "All right. Just for today, I'll let you spoil me. Though only a little!"

Isabela beamed. "Wonderful! Then I propose we do a little more shopping, and stop somewhere nice for dinner. And after that... my place?"

Bethany wrinkled her nose "Considering that my place isn't an option unless you want Uncle Gamlen making lewd comments and listening at the door, that sounds fine to me."

Isabela grinned, and hooked her arm through Bethany's. "Then let's go spend more of my money. There's a few other little scraps of silk I'd like to buy for the both of us before this evening."

* * *

**Cassandra/Leliana – Broken Faith**

She found the red-head on her knees in the chantry, hands clasped around a thick red candle, face upturned to the statue of Andraste. It surprised her, sometimes, the depth of the other woman's faith, until she remembered that this was a woman who was said to have visited the resting place of Andraste's ashes; who had been in that most holy of places, and returned.

"Leliana," she whispered, hating to disturb the older woman's meditations, but having no choice.

Blue eyes turned and met her own, a sweet smile curving lush red lips. "Cassandra," Leliana said.

"It is as you predicted," Cassandra told her. "We are summoned."

Leliana nodded, and rose gracefully to her feet, pacing forward a few steps to set the burning candle down on the edge of a cluster of such. She turned back, the soft look vanishing from her face, replaced with steel. "I am ready," she said.

Cassandra nodded, and turned away, leading the way out of the nave of the chantry and through a side-door into a passage, and from there out a larger door into the beautiful gardens that surrounded the building, judged to be among the most beautiful in all of Orlais; a fitting tribute to Andraste and the Maker, making a spot of such unequalled beauty. Usually the pair of them would walk slowly through the gardens, admiring the gorgeous blooms so expertly cared for by legions of highly trained elven gardeners, but today there was no time for such. They hurried, instead, a fast walk rather than an indecorous run, but still paying scant attention to their surroundings.

"Word must have finally come," Leliana said as they walked, a faint frown creasing her brow. "I told the Divine, after my return from Kirkwall..."

"Yes, yes," Cassandra said. "I suspect you are right. The market is rife with rumours of insurrection in the east."

"It is not the _east_ that is to be feared," Leliana said, a touch sharply. "The mages matter not at all, in the greater scheme of things. It is this business in the north that is far more worrisome."

Cassandra bit back a retort. She still believed it was the problems with the mages, especially after the deaths in Kirkwall, and the growing discontent in the White Spire, that was the heart of the problem. But Leliana had proved several times to have a nose for problems that more experienced bards and seekers had been known to miss.

In this case, it seemed, the bard was to prove disappointed; it was not to the north the pair of them were being ordered, but to the east, to Kirkwall itself. They were to look into the events there and try to determine what involvement this "Hawke" person had with the recent destruction of the chantry there, and whether it was tied to events in Ferelden, Hawke' supposed homeland, where the so-called Hero of Ferelden – another apostate mage – had recently disappeared from right under Chantry surveillance, along with Hawke's sister, yet another mage.

"Did you ever meet this Hawke or his sister?" Cassandra asked late that night, as they leaned side-by-side on the railing of a ship bound eastwards the next morning, watching the stars reflected in the still waters of the harbour. "They are said to have come from Lothering, and I remember you spent some years there."

Leliana wrinkled her nose. "If I did, I do not recall it. They were farmers there, according to what has been learned of their past, and I interacted little with the people of the town. I mostly stayed in the cloister. It was a dreadfully rural place," she added dismissively, then smiled ruefully. "Though that did not stop me from missing it after I left. Nor the friends I left behind, as few of them as there were. Very few of them survived the Blight, I am told; those that did not die when the darkspawn overran Lothering mostly died later, either of the Blight disease while helping the sick and injured, or when the darkspawn marched on Denerim a half-year later. It still amazes me that I survived. If it hadn't been for..." she broke off, and frowned, a troubled look on her face.

Cassandra touched her arm lightly. "Your vision. The one that led you away, before the darkspawn invasion."

Leliana's face went very still, her eyes remote, lost in memory. "Yes. My vision," she said, voice flat and empty, then suddenly straightened and turned away. "Come. It is late; we should retire to our cabin."

Cassandra followed her away, wondering – not for the first time – why Leliana seemed so hesitant to ever speak of her adventures in Ferelden. It was such a beautiful story, after all, how by Andraste's favour she'd been granted a vision, which had led her to follow the Grey Warden who later became known as the Hero of Ferelden away from her cloister. As a result of which, her life had been spared and her feet set on the path that led her to Andraste's resting place, and eventually to her current high station, a close personal friend of the Divine herself. Surely such a vision must have been a very great blessing indeed; look at all that had come of it.

But she had learned, since first meeting Leliana, that there was no point in asking the older woman to talk of Ferelden, of her vision, or of the Hero himself. It must be too painfully personal, Cassandra supposed. She didn't even know whether or not it was true that the bard had been the hero's lover for a while, though that would have been scandalous indeed; a lay sister, fornicating with an apostate elf! _Not_ something she herself could ever imagine occurring, as proper as Leliana usually was.

Though she could be quite improper in bed; quite deliciously so, Cassandra reminded herself as they changed. They sat awake for a while, drinking a little brandy before sleep, exchanging a few idle kisses between sips, then curling up together in a companionable cuddle, with not enough privacy – nor enough room in the bed, really – to do anything more interesting.

" _Do_ you think it's connected?" Cassandra asked sleepily, then yawned. "The disappearances. Hawke and the Hero."

Leliana shrugged. "Yes. Maybe. But not in whatever way people are guessing it is. Likely the hero has just followed his nose off into trouble of some kind again, and it's just coincidence that makes it seem related. I have faith in few things, but in his ability to find trouble... _that_ I have perfect faith in."

Cassandra laughed. "Here I was just thinking earlier of how much faith you have, and here you are claiming to have little!"

Leliana smiled crookedly. "I had faith, once. Or thought I did. I thought I had the favour of Andraste herself..." She trailed off, then shrugged. "But I was wrong."

"But you do!" Cassandra exclaimed, pushing herself up on one. "Everyone sees it! Why, your visions, the blessed Ashes..."

Leliana sighed, and then smiled charmingly. "I'm sorry. It must be the brandy speaking; it always makes me melancholy. Come, enough of faith. There are far more interesting things to think about," she said, and then proceeded to prove that the bed was, in fact, just big enough.

* * *

**Sigrun/Jarvia**

Jarvia sat down on the edge of the bed once the healer had left, taking away the old bandages and snipped-off knots of thread. "Let me see," Jarvia said.

Sigrun scowled in irritation, but sat up. "Yes, mother," she snapped.

Jarvia smiled as she grasped Sigrun's chin and carefully turned her face to one side, so the light illuminated her left cheek better. "You only wish you'd had a mother like me," she said lightly, then leaned closer, frowning slightly as she examined the line of reddened flesh there, the row of tiny holes to either side of it where the stitches had been. She touched one fingertip to it, pressing lightly. "Still tender?"

Sigrun pulled her head free, turning away. "No," she said, one hand rising to hide the marks.

Jarvia reached out and pulled her hand down out of the way. "Don't do that, girl," she said, voice severe. "Wear your scars with pride. They show you _survived_." Sigrun glared at her, and she smiled again. "Not that that's all that much of a scar; it won't even be very noticeable at all once the redness fades." A lie, she knew; it _would_ be noticeable, the deep cut having damaged some of the muscles and nerves in Sigrun's cheek. The mark would fade, in time, but that side of the girl's mouth would forever be less mobile.

Normally Jarvia didn't much worry over the injuries her people took; their lives were violent ones, fights and injuries common. But that it was Sigrun... that was different. And _why_ it had been Sigrun; as a message. A message to Jarvia, from one of the rival gangs. A message that said, we know who you care for. And we can _hurt_ them, if you don't back off.

She still remembered the first time she'd ever seen the girl; a starveling street kid, only just hitting puberty. By the look of her, either orphaned or the unwanted female child of a noble hunter, kicked out to fend for herself at a too-early age. She had the slight frame of life-long malnourishment; small even for a dwarf, and with a fragile look to her. But what little flesh she'd had on too-fine bones was as tough as the girl herself, and what she'd lacked in strength and stature she more than made up for with speed and stubborn determination. That first time Jarvia had ever set eyes on her, she'd been holding off an adult dwarf more than twice her size, armed with nothing better than a well-honed sliver of metal that might, in its better days, have been a kitchen knife, the rusting tang wrapped in rags to provide an adequate handle.

Jarvia had intervened, leaving the man lying on the ground with a cracked skull, and smiled when the girl – name then unknown – had not lowered her guard, clearly not trusting that Jarvia's intervention meant the woman was any more kindly inclined to her than the man had been. "Smart girl," she'd told her approvingly, and tossed her a coin before walking away, leaving the starveling to steal whatever she wanted from the man; kill him, too, if she wanted to.

The girl had turned up in her path again a few days later, with some interesting gossip, hoping to trade it for another coin. Clearly she'd taken the time to find out who her benefactor had been, enough to know who and what Jarvia was, and that she would, in fact, pay informants who brought her any particularly useful tidbits of information. Jarvia had also looked into the girl, after that – just enough to be sure she was what she seemed, and not some clever trap planted by one of her enemies – and the girl, Sigrun, had become one of her many informants. And, eventually, as she grew a little older – though never any taller, nor much heavier – wormed her way into being a full member of Jarvia's gang.

She'd proven a damned good fighter, once given a little training, fast and vicious. "Jarvia's little deepstalker," one of the older fighters once dubbed her, comparing her speed and deadliness to the feared scavengers of the Deeps. Sigrun had taken pride in the title, and Jarvia had been surprised to realize it was as much for the first word as the last. That Sigrun was _proud_ to be seen as hers. That the girl would willingly die for her, if needed.

Loyalty like that was worth more than gold; she'd made Sigrun part of her personal bodyguard. And eventually, as a few years familiarity with each other showed them both that there was a certain degree of mutual interest in each other, taken her as a lover as well. She'd tried to tell herself it was purely a pragmatic choice, binding her most loyal bodyguard to her with even closer ties. After all the girl was only one of several people she liked enough to sleep with, but in her innermost heart of hearts – the one she barely even acknowledged to herself existed, lat alone ever exposed to anyone else – she knew she'd come to love the girl.

Someone had guessed; or at least guessed that she cared enough for Sigrun that it _would_ hurt her if anything happened to the girl. And sent her a message, as clear as the healing knife gash that marred Sigrun's face, a cut that had been meant to wound, not to kill.

"Are you sure it's not that bad?" Sigrun asked, looking worried.

Jarvia smiled, and leaned forward to press a kiss to the scarred cheek, the wounded mouth. "I promise, it's not that bad. And if the look of the scar bothers you after it finishes healing, you could always get a tattoo that hides it; you've talked of getting one before."

Sigrun grinned. "I suppose I could at that," she agreed, and finally relaxed, a happy smile suddenly lighting her face; a crooked grin, the right side lifting higher than the left.

She would find out who it was, Jarvia decided as she kissed Sigrun again, her hands starting to roam. She would find out whose message this had been, and she would kill them. Not for any possible danger they might be to herself and her growing operation – growing by leaps and bounds since she'd hooked up with Beraht, who had connections up above that she could only envy – but because of the method they'd chosen to deliver their message. Because that was a message _she_ needed to send; harm what was hers, and die for it.

* * *

**Isabela/Merrill – Macrame**

"Are you sure, kitten?" Isabela asked, sounding a little dubious.

"Yes. Oh, _please_ , Isabela... show me how."

"All right, but we'll need to stop at the market to pick up some things first," Isabela said. "And you have to promise not to tell anyone."

Merrill nodded, eyes alight with happiness. Isabela fought back a smile; she found it very hard to tell Merrill no to anything, especially when it brought such delightful expressions to her face. She led the way to the market, where she quickly picked out some findings they'd need, and several spools of dyed cord. On impulse she also picked up a few beads, carved of bone into the shape of animals – a bear, a wolf, a rather mabari-like dog, a hawk, and so forth. Then they returned to Merrill's house, Isabela setting out their purchases.

"We'll start with the rings," she said, picking one up. "We need to fasten several lengths of cord to it first of all. Cut lengths of cord this long," she said, demonstrating as she talked. "Then hold the ends together and find the middle. Slip the middle through the ring, then put the ends through the loop that makes, and pull it tight... that's called a lark's head knot, and is the basic method for fastening onto things."

Merrill nodded, and the two of them spent several minutes attaching lengths of cord to their rings. From there Isabela moved on to teaching the elf the basic knots – square knots and half-knots and hitches, and patterns made by repeating or combining different knots. Isabela worked quickly, Merrill much more slowly, with much biting of her lower lip and brow creased in concentration. She had to wait while the elf caught up with where she was, then showed her how to add a bead into the pattern, and work around it before continuing the bracelet. At the end they tied the cords off onto a small loop in the middle of a short metal bar; the bar could be passed end-first through the ring and then the cord would keep it pulled sideways across it, fastening the bracelet in place.

Merrill seemed very pleased with herself as she looked over the completed bracelet she'd made; the knotting was a little uneven, the resultant band of knotwork therefore rather uneven, but it was a good first attempt, and clearly she was delighted with the end results. "Thank you! I'm going to make bracelets for everyone for Satinalia," she said, then shyly offered the bracelet to Isabela. "This one is for you."

Isabela smiled, and offered the one she'd made in turn. "And this one is for you, kitten," she told the elf, smiling as Merrill only belatedly realized that the green and golden yellow cords were a close match for her scarf. The elf blushed in pleasure as she fastened the bracelet around her wrist, lightly touching one slender fingertip to the bead carved in the shape of a cat's head.

Isabela admired her own bracelet with secret delight; blue cords, the bead carved in the shape of a fish.

"You know so many knots," Merrill said wistfully as she looked closely over the intricately knotted macrame bracelet around her own wrist. "However do you remember them all!"

"By tying them over and over again, until you can do them in the dark and rain if you have to," Isabela told her.

Merrill looked up, and smiled. "Sometimes I forget that you're a sailor," she said.

Isabela snorted. "It's not always at sea that I put them to use," she said dryly. The meaning of the comment clearly eluded Merrill; for all her intelligence on things like Dalish lore and arcane branches of magic, the girl was often deplorably ignorant about other, more intimate subjects. "Maybe I'll show you some day, kitten," Isabela said. "But for now, let me show you a few more macrame knots you can use in making bracelets."

"All right," Merrill said, and smiled warmly at her.

It really was hard to ever tell the girl no. And maybe... maybe some day there'd be a chance to teach Merrill about saying yes.

* * *

**Isabela/Norah – Last Call for Drinks**

She should have been with Hawke. But he'd taken Merrill, Fenris, Varric and Carver with him, leaving her behind. Her, and Aveline, and Anders' corpse. The two of them exchanged a look, both of them wordless in the wake of events.

"I have things to do," Aveline said, voice scratchy with held-in emotion. "Come with me?"

Isabela shook her head, her own eyes dry. "No. There's a few things I'd better take care of myself," she said.

Aveline studied her face for a long moment, then nodded. "All right. I'll see you afterwards, I hope... if there is an afterwards." She turned, and left, shoulders bowed as she hurried off in the direction of the Hightown stairs, but head lifted and jaw set stubbornly, as it always was.

Anders was a tall man, but lanky, and Isabela knew how to carry things. Even things that leaked redly down her clothes as she carried them draped over her shoulders. Even things that had been good friends, not long before. No one stopped her; no one questioned why someone might be walking through Lowtown with a still-bleeding body draped over their back, not with the sky still alive with fire and the city echoing with the screams of the dying, the injured, the rioting, the merely terrified.

The door to the Hanged Man was closed and locked. The door that was _never_ closed or locked. She swore, and kicked and pounded at it, as well as she could when weighed down with the burden she carried.

"Go away!" a familiar voice shouted through the door after a while. "We're closed!"

Isabela paused. "Norah? It's me – let me in!" she called back, and leaned heavily against the wall, waiting.

A silence, then muttered swearing and the sound of the bar being lifted. "Quick, girl," Norah snapped as she swung the door open, then swore again, loudly, as she saw Isabela's burden.

Give Norah this; she was not a stupid woman, nor a hesitant one. She had the door shut and locked again as soon as Isabela was inside, and quickly led the way across the darkened bar and up to Varric's rooms, opening the door for Isabela before disappearing back downstairs. Isabela had barely had time to lower her burden to the floor before Norah was back, carrying a well-worn but clean sheet, a pile of dry dish-rags and towels, and a basin of soapy water, a bleak expression on her face. "You'll need help laying him out," was all she said.

Isabela nodded, and the two women set to work, neither speaking as they stripped the body and cleaned it. Work Isabela had done only a few times before, and proceeded with almost mechanically now, carefully not-thinking about what she was doing as she handled her friend's cooling flesh. Isabela glanced up once, and was surprised by the tears on Norah's face; her own eyes were dry. She looked back down at Anders, at his pale lips and closed eyes, his hands – once so skilled at healing – now turning blue and slowly stiffening. Even so she half-expected him to breath, to move, to open his eyes and smile. He couldn't be dead. How could he be dead? And of such a small, simple wound too, just a single small cut to the left of his spine, in between two ribs.

But she knew the answer to that. Hadn't she delivered death in just that way a time or three herself? She reached out, touching her hand to his stubbled cheek. She wished there was something she could say; something pithy, or meaningful. But what was there to say, now that he was gone? She sighed, after a moment, and went back to work. It needed doing, and better now than once he'd stiffened up.

He was, in the end, reduced to nothing but a large cloth-wrapped bundle; something to be placed on a pyre and burnt, if there was anyone left to do so once all of this ended. The two of them lifted him up, laying him down on the table, Isabela not wanting to leave him there on the floor. They cleaned up, bundling up his stained and stinking robes along with the fouled cloths from washing him. Only his feathered mantle had escaped being ruined by blood or other bodily wastes; Isabela held it in one hand for a moment, struck by an irrational desire to wrap it around her own shoulders, where it would at least hide the blood-soaked shoulder of her ruined tunic. Then set it aside, instead. Let Varric decide what was to be done with it. She pulled loose a single feather, tucking it away within the folds of the shawl knotted around her waist, then followed Norah back down to the bar.

The room was not empty, she realized now, though as silent as those gathered there were, it might as well have been. Patrons, most of them, who'd judged it wiser to remain locked up there rather than chance the streets outside. A few people who'd taken refuge inside when the madness started. Isabela threaded her way through them, to her normal spot by the bar, ignoring the people sitting silently at the tables, or standing motionless near the walls, eyes wide and glittering in the dim light, listening to the horrific sounds that drifted in from outside.

She slapped a coin down on the bar. "A drink," she said, voice loud in the too-still room. Eyes turned to look at her, some faces creasing with frowns. She ignored them all, reaching into her purse and pulling out an entire handful of coin, letting them clatter noisily to the bar in front of her. Corff stirred, made a faint sound. "A _drink_ ," she repeated. "For everyone in here."

Corff just stared. It was Norah who stepped around back of the bar, and began pulling mugs of beer, Corff only finally beginning to move as she handed filled mugs to him. He began to line them up on the counter, taking down empty mugs from the rack overhead and handing them to Norah to fill. "What's the occasion?" he asked, voice a hoarse rasp.

Isabela drew a deep breath. "Do we need one?" she asked, and gestured at the doors. "With _that_ going on outside?" She paused a moment. Only silence answered her, silence and the faint sounds of people rising to come forward and claim mugs. She shrugged. "Drink up, because we're still alive to do so," she said bleakly.

Norah handed her a measure of rum, at the end, once everyone had been served. She stared into it, making perhaps inevitable comparisons between its rich golden brown shade and the colour of Anders' eyes. She lifted it up, studying it in the failing light.

"To the quick, and the dead. Because if you're not one, you're the other," she said hoarsely, and knocked back the drink.

Then the tears finally came.

* * *

**Keili/f!Surana – "Please see _me._ "**

Nervous fingers, smoothing the skirts of her robe, straightening the hang of the heavy belts. She picked up a comb, scowling as she noted the broken teeth, and reminded herself – again – that she needed to get a new one. Though that would mean going to the stock room and putting in a request to Owain, and she hated talking to the Tranquil. She dragged the comb quickly through her thick hair, fingers shaking a little with the anxiety that thoughts of the Tranquil always brought to her. The Tranquil were blessed, she reminded herself, separated from their curséd magic, at peace with themselves and the Maker. Out of danger. _Frightening_ , some part of her whispered. Unnatural. _Blessed,_ she argued back. Beyond temptation.

She paused, staring blindly into the mirror, thinking of the voices in her dreams the night before, the alluring images that had come to her. The _offers_ , the lures held out by the creatures of the Fade. Long slim legs, trim thighs, a narrow waist and small, pert breasts, large bright green eyes and shapely pointed ears, a well-known face _smiling_ joyfully, welcomingly – smiling at _her_. Wanting her. Desiring her.

She dropped her comb to the floor, forgotten, and hurried from the room, ignoring everyone around her as she made her way upstairs to the comfort of the small chantry. She knelt before a statue of Andraste, praying fervently, saying the words of the Chant over and over again until the memory of the images and the whispering voices left her. Her knees ached when she rose unsteadily to her feet again, her robes creased from kneeling. She scowled and smoothed her hands over them, hating not looking her best, then made her way back downstairs.

She was going to be late for her first class again, she realized, and darted into the refectory long enough to snatch a piece of bread to eat, hurriedly eating a couple of bites of it and then discarding the remainder on the corridor floor just outside the classroom. She quickly dusted any crumbs from her face and hands, finger-combed her hair, then folded her hands neatly in front of her, and walked in, head held high and cheeks flaming with self-consciousness.

"Late again, Keili?" Senior Enchanter Leorah asked, frowning at her.

"Sorry, Senior Enchanter. I was in the chantry, Senior Enchanter," she said contritely.

Leorah sniffed disdainfully. "To your desk, Keili," she ordered tiredly.

Keili gave her a hurried, shallow bow, then turned and made her way across the room to her own seat, trying to ignore the looks from the other apprentices. Though she could not stop herself from looking to her left, looking for Neria. Was she looking? Did she see? But no, her head was turned away, the elven girl laughing at something Jowan was saying. Keili felt a stab of disappointment. Why was it _him_ the girl was friends with? Why couldn't it be her, instead? Stomach churning, she looked away, moving to her seat and sitting down, trying to concentrate on the work at hand.

If only Neria was her friend. If only Neria was _more_ than a friend. Then the demons would have nothing to tempt her with, and everything would be perfect. Everything would be fine. She glanced again at the other girl, wishing, wishing and preying _so hard_... but Neria never turned her head. Never looked. Never saw her, not as she saw Neria.

* * *

**Anora/Isolde – Children**

"He is _my son_ ," Isolde cried out. "Why can you not understand?"

"He is a _mage_ ," Anora pointed out coldly. "And one already responsible for the deaths of too many of people."

"He is a _child!_ He did not understand what he was doing, he sought only to protect and save his father..."

"And that is why you should have surrendered him to the chantry as soon as you realized he was a mage," Anora cut her off coldly. "It is exactly to prevent such horrific events as this that the chantry requires mages to be raised within the Circle, where their magic can be contained and controlled until they are mature enough to be able to control it themselves. Had you and your husband done as the law requires you to, this tragedy would never have occurred. I say again, Arlessa – over a hundred dead, because of your son. No. Not just because of your son; because of _you_ , and your wilful disobedience of the law."

Isolde recoiled as if slapped, then her face contorted in an expression of hatred. "You cannot understand. You have never been a mother; likely you never will be, or you would have born Cailan a child before he died – you are a foul, unnatural creature, and barren. I am Connor's _mother_ ; I will have him back."

Anora's face hardened. Ignoring the Arlessa, she signalled to her guards. "Remove the Arlessa from my throne room," she told them. "Do not re-admit her without my express permission."

She stood frozen, ignoring the further cutting words Isolde screamed as she was removed. Only once the woman was gone did she turn and leave the room, retreating to her own chambers for a while. She stood at the window, looking out over the sunlit gardens. Remembering how she and Cailan and their friends had played together there, when they were children. Remembered her dreams of their own children playing there some day as well. Remembered the long lonely nights, alone in her marriage bed, while Cailan revelled elsewhere. He was at least careful; none of his whores had ever quickened. But the one time she had, it had not lasted; only long enough for her to know that she _had_ caught, and then it was gone again, lost too early to be anything but bloody thighs and pain. So no, she was not barren... but neither was she a mother.

Though _oh_ , how she wished she was.

* * *

**Athenril/Guardswoman Brennan – Tainted Goods**

"Do you have the goods?" Athenril asked warily.

"Maybe. Do you have the money?" the guardswoman asked suspiciously.

Athenril snorted. "Of course I do. Come, not out here," she said, and led the way out of sight, into the back room. Only once the door was shut did the expression on her face change, from wary dislike to a welcoming smile. "Brennan," she said, rising up on her toes to press a kiss to the guardswoman's lips, hands rising to tangle into shoulder-length brown hair.

Brennan made an approving sound, kissing her back heatedly, the woman's hands rising to cup Athenril's face, long fingertips brushing gently against the edges of the elf's ears, a deliciously shivery feeling, before dropping down to cup Athenril's breasts through her armour.

The smuggler cursed – as she always did – over the time it took to remove their armour, hers of stiffened leather and Brennan's of hard metal, warm from her body's heat, before they could touch enough of each other. Brennan lifted her up, ignoring her swearing protests, and sat her down on a nearby crate. Cursing that changed in tone, though not in content, when the guard's strong fingers slid up between her thighs. She struggled and moaned, and bit at what she could reach of the taller woman, which drew swears in turn; harsh words, but the tone made them sweet. Sweet as winter wine, sweet as honey, sweet as the feel of a thumb rubbing against just the right spot while fingers wiggled and crooked and scissored within her, until she cried out, muffling the sound against Brennan's sweating shoulder.

Brennan was grinning, looking pleased with herself as she stepped back. She would not, Athenril knew, let the smuggler return the favour; not today, when they had so little time. Next time, perhaps, if they could arrange a longer rendezvous. They redressed quickly, taking the opportunity to steal further caresses as they helped each other with straps and buckles.

Only once they were both dressed did Brennan go digging in a belt pouch, taking out a large iron key. "Here," she said brusquely, holding it out on the palm of one hand. "Just don't let anyone ever find out where you got it; Aveline would skin me alive if she knew."

Athenril nodding, making the key – which would unlock the grate closing off a particular sewer tunnel's outflow – disappear into her own garments. She thanked Brennan with another kiss. There would be money too, of course – it wasn't out of any love for her that the guardswoman was risking her job this way – but it would not pass directly from her hand into Brennan's.

She just hoped that Brennan would never learn what she was going to be smuggling out via that tunnel; there were some things the guardswoman would never forgive.


	40. His Real Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loosely based on an idea by cypheroftyr, in which we find out what Anders' real name is, and a big part of why he hasn't admitted to it.

They didn't bother with tents, it being a warm night, just spreading their bedrolls on the sand around their campfire, each of them picking a spot that suited them. Hawke and Isabela's side-by-side between a boulder and a bush that together gave them at least the illusion of some privacy; Varric's close enough to the fire that he had enough light to scribble in his notebook by; Anders under a bush as far as he could get from where Hawke and Isabela were, because even if you couldn't see them, you could still hear them, even if they were being as quiet about it as they could be.

Varric didn't mind, if anything it put him in the right frame of mind for the scene he was currently outlining. Even if the participants in it weren't them.

He took first watch, as he always did; by later in the night the fire would be down to coals, and not give enough light for writing by. Anders was soon snoring away, having exhausted himself in a running fight earlier that had started out against slavers, managed to blunder into a coven of blood mages, and ended in the middle of a clutch of giant spiders. The only things missing to make it a complete tour of the Wounded Coast had been a pack of mabari and a sprinkling of Tal'Vashoth. Doubtless they'd trip over those on their way home tomorrow.

The faint noises from behind the bushes had finally ended, replaced by a single feminine snore, when Varric's ears caught an anomalous noise somewhere out there in the rocks; the scuff of foot against sand, the faint jingle of armour. He set down his pen and notebook, and picked up Bianca, tense and waiting.

"Varric?" a voice called softly out of the darkness.

"Fenris," Varric said, and sighed, relaxing and letting Bianca's tip droop down. Then frowned. "What are you doing out here?"

"Looking for Hawke," Fenris said, and vaulted lightly over a rock into view, picking his way down the sandy slope toward their camp. "She's needed back in Kirkwall."

"By who?" Hawke asked, voice thick with sleep, from over in the bushes, Isabela's muttered curse a beat behind her voice.

"Wait, Sebastian knows the full story," he said, glancing back the way he'd come.

"Choir boy is here too?" Varric asked.

"Yes. I told him to let me approach first, to be sure it was you camped here, and so that you'd know it was us," Fenris said, glancing pointedly at Bianca, then cupped his hands around his mouth and called out. "Sebastian! Come in!"

"Ich komme, Mutter!" Anders exclaimed, sitting up and rubbing sleepily at his eyes.

Both Fenris and Varric turned to stare at him, then Sebastian came hurrying into the campsite, looking worriedly back over his shoulder. "I think we were followed, Fenris," he said worriedly. "I could hear someone moving up behind us; more than one, by the sound of it."

The elf cursed, and things got busy after that, between dealing with the group of Tevinter bounty hunters who'd followed them hoping to capture Fenris, and rushing back to Kirkwall to deal with the problem that had brought Sebastian and Fenris out in search of them. It was a very busy three days later before Varric found himself seated in the quiet of his rooms, smelling of smoke – the whole city stank of burning, where it wasn't stinking of corpses instead – and looking at the exhausted mage slumped in a seat nearby, eyes unfocused.

"Sebastian, eh?" Varric said. And only because he was watching for it did he see Anders react at all, just the slightest skip in his breathing, a faint deepening of his crow's feet, the barest thinning of his lips. Then the mage made a show of glancing around, frowning.

"He's not here. Gone back to the Chantry, I think."

"That's not what I meant, Blondie. I mean you; you've always been so reticent about what your birth name is. But the other night, Fenris called for Sebastian and _you_ answered."

Anders definitely reacted to that; he hunched his shoulders, an expression of distaste on his face. "You're imagining things," he said.

Varric snorted. "I may not speak Anderfallian, but I've picked up enough words here and there to know when someone has just said ' _I'm coming, mother_ ' in response to a name being called. _Their_ name being called. Sebastian."

Anders made a face. "All right, yes, that was my name. _Was_. I stopped being Sebastian the day my parents let the templars drag me off. Didn't just let them; _asked them to_. I'm only Anders, now."

Varric sat there studying his face for several long minutes, then shrugged minutely. "All right. You're Anders. Or Blondie. Or Sparkle-fingers. Or _mage_ ," he added, in a good imitation of the venomous way Fenris would say it when particularly angry. "I suppose having two Sebastian's would be too damned confusing anyway, even if the pair of you aren't much alike."

"We're _nothing_ alike," Anders said, voice tinged with anger as he rose to his feet. "And we're not a pair."

"Yeah, yeah. Look, take the bed; you're more like to fall on your face then make it back to Darktown safely."

Anders frowned, but considering he was swaying back and forth a little just while trying to stand there, he couldn't exactly rally an argument against the offer. Finally he sighed, nodded. "Thanks," he said, and turned away, walking unsteadily off in the direction of Varric's bedroom.

"No problem," Varric called after his retreating back, and then pulled a notebook and a pen closer, uncapping a bottle of ink. Now... how to describe the events of the last few days...

He was soon lost in his writing, all thought of Anders and his real name shelved as irrelevant to the story unfolding before him.


	41. Ask Box Ficlets 30 - Birthday Prompts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written to fill prompts that I took as a birthday gift to myself (after going far too many months without taking prompts!) in early August. I specifically asked for prompts that featured female characters, as I don't write enough of them, and boy did my prompters deliver :)

**Aveline/Fenris – Broken**

"Please, someone stop him!" the red-headed elf begs, eyes wide and fearful as she looke past Fenris' shoulder at them.

Aveline swayed, torn between moving closer and intervening, or allowing Fenris to make his own decision in the matter. Hawke speaks up while she is still undecided, voice studiously casual, tone light. "Go ahead, Fenris, if this is what you really want."

Varania's eyes widen as she looks at Hawke, she pales at what she sees in Hawke's expression, then looks at Fenris. "If this is truly what you want..." she begins to say.

Fenris shudders, like how the skin across the shoulders of a dog or the withers of a horse will shudder sometimes, reacting to a touch or a buzzing fly, and then he _moves._ A movement so fast, Aveline has barely started to step forward, to open her mouth, to lift her hand, to try to intervene but it's already too late, Varania makes a little broken noise and falls to the floor, already going limp, dying. Broken. Too late.

Aveline's ears are ringing, and she knows her own cheeks have paled. She can see Fenris' mouth moving, hears Hawke's sardonic "You still have friends," hears Anders' cutting disavowal of any such feeling for the elf. And then Fenris turns, and walks out, leaving a trail behind him, a blood trail, of little red droplets dripping off of his clawed metal gauntlet.

* * *

She follows him, later, once she's finished dealing with the mess at the Hanged Man. She finds him curled up in a chair in his room, a near-empty bottle of wine held against his chest with one still-gauntleted hand, the other – the blood-soaked one – hanging limply over the arm of the chair, blood drying and flaking on it, a few final spatters drying on the floor by the leg of the chair. His eyes are rimmed in red and he just looks blankly at her and does not speak.

Aveline crouches down, carefully removes the bottle from his grip and sets it aside. Fenris does not react, not even when she begins to strip him, first the clean gauntlet and then moving to remove the one fouled with the blood and viscera of his dead master and his dead sister. He makes a sound then, low in his throat, when her fingers touch the blood-soaked red rag still knotted around his wrist.

"I know," she says, forcing her voice to remain calm. "I won't harm it. But it needs to be cleaned too."

He subsides, watching her, eyes glittering in the dim light from the single candle he's lit, as she carefully picks apart the ragged knot, unwraps the strip of increasingly thread-bare fabric.

She can remember when it first appeared on his wrist. He and Hawke had been dancing around each other for weeks, months, and then there'd been a night where they'd both left the Hanged Man within minutes of each other, after much exchanging of significant looks. And the next day... the strip of red cloth around Fenris' wrist, the exact shade Hawke favoured, and even more tellingly, a pouch threaded on Fenris' belt, marked with the Amell crest. Lovers' token, she'd thought at first, and been happy for the pair of them. But it was clear almost immediately that things weren't right between the pair of them, and within the week Anders had moved in with Hawke, the two mages very obviously a pair.

And now... the pouch is long gone from Fenris' belt, though she is sure she caught a glimpse of it in the trunk by his bed when he was looking for something within it once. The red cloth has remained around his wrist though, and the way Fenris sometimes looks at Hawke... he still loves Hawke, she is sure, though Hawke does not love him. And then there is the way Hawke sometimes looks at Fenris, when the elf is not looking Hawke's direction, a look that Aveline has come to intensely dislike, though she can't articulate what it is about it that disturbs her so.

Fenris takes the cloth from her hand, folding it up and closing his hand around it, then tilts his head back, eyes closing. He sits silently and allows her to continue disrobing him, at least as far as removing the breastplate and jacket, though not the leggings, and remains there motionless while she fetches clean water, soap, a rag, and gentle cleans the skin of his hand. She has done this for him before; after Hadriana, when he was too shocky to look after himself. He allows it, knowing it is... well, a _maternal_ attention, if anything, nothing more. He is older than her by a year or three, at least physically, but otherwise so painfully young he reminds her of the rawest of her new recruits.

He washes out the cloth strip when she is done, then smooths the ragged fabric out over one knee. Only when that is done does he finally look at her again. "She was my _sister_ ," he manages to say, and then the tears come. She holds him then, lightly, while he sobs brokenly on her shoulder, stiff as a plank but accepting the offered comfort anyway.

"I remember..." he says at one point, and then just cries harder, nothing further said. When he is cried out he sits back, looking away from her again.

"Come stay with Donnic and I for a few days," she offers. "He'd be glad of the company..."

Fenris shakes his head. "No," he says, hoarsely. "Hawke might come."

Aveline bites her lip. That has been his wish for three years – over three years – now. That Hawke would come. And sometimes, she knows, Hawke does come, but only to talk, to drink, to joke a little before returning home to Anders. Never for what Fenris really wants.

"All right," she finally says. She reaches out, touching fingers gently to the curve of his shoulder, a liberty he allows her. "Promise me you'll go to bed, at least."

"All right," he echoes, wraps the cloth loosely around his wrist, tucking in the ragged ends, then levers himself out of the chair. His foot knocks over the bottle, which rolls in a half-circle, most of what little wine remains in it spilling out on the dusty floor. Fenris peers owlishly down at it for a moment, making a sound of disgust, then steps past her to lift an unopened bottle from the table behind her, and walks over to his bed with it.

She does not argue or comment, just turns and leaves. There is nothing more she can do for him, not now, though she promises herself that she will see to it that she or Donnic or Isabela drop in daily for a while and remind him that he _does_ have friends, real friends, so he doesn't do anything... foolish.

She has to walk by Hawke's mansion on the way back home. She pauses there, in the recessed doorway, considering knocking, going in to speak to Hawke, suggesting a visit to Fenris might be appreciated just now. Sounds float out from an open window overhead. Anders, saying something in that mocking tone he uses too often for her liking. Hawke, laughing. A brief silence. A throaty moan.

She turns and walks away. What Fenris needs is nothing Hawke can give him. Not any more. Perhaps not ever.

* * *

**Cassandra/Morrigan**

Cassandra eyed the other woman warily. From Ferelden, and therefore little more than a barbarian by Orlesian standards – though Fereldans were regarded slightly more kindly in Cassandra's birth country of Nevarra – and yet she carried herself with an arrogant self-assurance few Orlesians could match, and they were known for their arrogance. She had connections here in Orlais, by rumour at the highest levels within the court. Her deep burgundy dress was certainly in the latest court style, though she was lacking the mask that any Orlesian of station would never be seen in public or by strangers without.

"You asked to speak with me?" the woman said.

Cassandra nodded her head. "Yes. You are truly Morrigan, the wi... the mage who accompanied the Hero of Ferelden during the Blight?"

Morrigan's eyebrows rose slightly. "You doubt I am who I say I am?"

"No, sorry, I am merely... surprised. I expected someone much older, based on your reputation. It is a formidable one."

Morrigan's face remained still for a moment, thinking, and then a very slight smile curved her lips, quite transforming her face. "I will take that as a compliment," she said, relaxing as she spoke, some of the steel going out of her spine. "What did you wish to speak to me about?"

"About the Hero. I do not know if you have heard, but he has disappeared..."

Morrigan lifted the fingers of one hand slightly. "I have heard."

Cassandra felt a slight surge of hope. The news had been tightly contained, the Grey Wardens of Ferelden having been hiding the Hero's absence with surprising effectiveness for some time; even now very few people knew. The Seekers would not have known at all that the Hero was missing entirely, not just ignoring their queries, if Leliana had not visited Vigil's Keep herself. "Have you heard _from_ him?" Cassandra asked, trying to hide her excitement.

Morrigan shrugged. "We met and talked, briefly. Almost a year ago now. Then he left."

"Did he say where?" Cassandra asked, unable to keep the edge out of her voice, it being slightly over a year ago that the Hero had vanished; unless Morrigan is mistaken on how long it's been, she saw him _after_ his disappearance.

Morrigan paused, studied her. "No," she finally said.

Cassandra studied her in turn. That pause makes her think that there is more Morrigan could have said about the warden's plans. She wishes, suddenly, that she had more leverage here in Orlais; that she dared question this Morrigan more closely. But there is, as always, the knowledge that it does not matter here that she is a Seeker, because not only is she a _Nevarran_ Seeker, not an Orlesian one, but she is of the ruling house there, the Pentaghasts; long-time enemies of Orlais. And Morrigan has _connections_. Protection.

"Can you at least tell me where it was that you last saw him? Perhaps some of what you talked about?"

Morrigan cocked her head to one side, looking thoughtful,and then smiled. "No," she says again. "Save that it was of personal matters."

They sit, studying each other, both silent, Morrigan looking entirely calm and composed. Cassandra wondered what it would take to unravel her connections, to loosen or sever enough of them that she could meet this woman again in some situation where she could force her to speak. She has a nasty suspicion that Morrigan's calmness comes from a certainty that any such efforts would be futile; she also suspects the woman is right, given how much work it took to arrange even this brief, very private interview.

"I will tell you this," Morrigan suddenly, unexpectedly volunteers. She folds her fingers neatly together on the edge of the table between them, leaning forward slightly as she does so, confidingly. "You will never find him unless he chooses to be found." And smiles, looking self-satisfied as she settles back in her seat.

Cassandra's jaw set. "Thank you for your time," she said, stiffly, as she rose to her feet, knowing this whole exercise had been futile. She is coldly certain now that this woman will tell her nothing of use; that she may even have been purposefully toying with Cassandra by allowing this meeting to take place.

"You're most welcome," Morrigan said with a warmth in her voice that is not at all echoed in her eyes or her posture. "I'm sure you can show yourself out."

Cassandra gave her a bow, of minimal politeness, then turns to leave.

"Tell Leliana hello from me," Morrigan called lazily after her as she's exiting the room. Cassandra stops for a moment in the doorway, almost turns back, then continues on her way. Her anger does not fade until she has left the fine mansion, walked to the building where she has temporary quarters, and walked into her sitting room, where the redhead awaits, sipping from a glass of wine. Leliana has a second glass ready, and pours and hands Cassandra one as she moves to take a seat near the bard.

"Anything?" Leliana asked, looking hopeful.

"No. And she knows you are here."

"Damnation. Well, I suppose we will have to hope a visit to Kirkwall proves more fruitful."

Cassandra sighed. "One can hope."

* * *

**Anders/Orana – Please look my way, ser**

He was here again, the magister... no, the _mage_ , she reminded herself. There were no magisters in Kirkwall, she'd been told. Only mages.

Still, old habits die hard. She was always on her best behaviour when he was around. One must carry oneself just so, with graceful carriage and lowered eyes and as silently as one could. One must perform tasks as perfectly as one was able to, while drawing as little attention as possible. One must try to anticipate the magisters' needs without making the magister feel as if their needs were predictable. One must always say yes to a magister, even if one would rather say no.

She could feel Hawke's eyes on her as she entered the room, carrying in the tea for himself and Anders. He always watched; not in the cruel way that many magisters had, watching for mistakes to punish, but simply because he was the sort of man who was always aware of what anyone close to him was doing; an on guard sort of watchfulness. Some magisters were like that too, though Hawke's watchfulness had more of the feeling of learned habit than any real paranoia. But then he wasn't a magister, himself, just a thief. He'd stolen many things; Fenris' loyalty. Hadriana's life. Her service.

She knelt by the low table near the fire, setting down the tray. Measured tea leaves into the lovely porcelain teapot, then poured the hot water from the towel-covered thick-walled ceramic pitcher into it, setting the empty pitcher down on the floor by her knee, to take away with her when she was done. While the tea steeped she quickly and unobtrusively neatened up the contents of the tray, things having shifted slightly while being carried the long way up from the kitchen. Her motions were almost automatic, trained into her long ago.

She kept her eyes on the tray, though in the corner of her vision she could still see the two men stretched out on the bed. Hawke watching her. Anders watching Hawke. "The tea is ready. Shall I pour?" she asked, when it was ready, and looked directly at Hawke, however briefly, as his mother had insisted she learn to do.

He smiled, kindly. "No, you can go now. We'll serve ourselves," he said.

She nodded, picked up the pitcher, and left. Aware still of Hawke watching her. Of the mage watching him. And never watching her.

She was never quite certain if she felt more relieved by that, or frightened; some of the worst of the magisters never seemed to be watching you. Until they were.

* * *

**F!Hawke/Aveline – Lace**

"You should have brought Isabela along for this," Hawke said. "She's far better at shopping than I am. Especially shopping for..." She trailed off, waving her hands around to indicate the few tastefully displayed scraps of satin, velvet and lace. "For all _this._ "

Aveline snorted. "And have to put up with all her comments about my size and shape? Not to mention all the suggestive ones? No thank you, Hawke... you're a far better choice."

"Bethany would be a better choice than I am," Hawke countered. "She actually cares about looking pretty."

Aveline smiled. "While you just care about what you wear being able to keep blades and arrows away from you. Yes, I know. But I also trust you to tell me truthfully whether or not something looks good on me."

Hawke sighed. "I still think Isabela would have been a better choice."

"I went shopping with her once; once was enough," Aveline said firmly.

"You did? When?" Hawke asked, startled.

Aveline blushed. "When I was picking out an outfit to wear to dinner with Donnic."

"Oh. _Oh!_ You mean, that dress..."

"Yes, that dress was selected by Isabela," Aveline hurriedly interrupted, her colour deepening. "I may forgive her eventually, but this is not yet that time."

"Right. So no little shopping trips with Isabela then."

"No."

"Why don't we look at some lingerie and undergarments?"

"That sounds like exactly what I asked you here to do," Aveline said, and smiled, looking amused, then turned at looked at the displays. "I wonder what colour I should go with."

"White?"

"Too virginal. This is my second marriage, Hawke. I want something with a little more... well, a little more _experienced_ looking."

"Black? Red?"

"Maybe black. Though it strikes me as a very Isabela choice. And I'm not sure I'd look as good as I'd like in red, when I already have red hair and freckles... be a bit monotone, wouldn't it? Orange is out for the same reason, even if it is one of my favourite colours."

"Green to go with your eyes?"

"That might work," Aveline said thoughtfully.

Eventually they went into the back, carrying a small fortune in flimsy underthings in both black and green. Hawke sat and watched while Aveline stripped down and tried on the first outfit, trying not to stare too obviously. A little torturous, the not-staring part, when Aveline had just the sort of figure Hawke most liked; strong, but lush. And the freckles... she wanted to lick the freckles.

"Hawke... Hawke! What do you think?" Aveline asked, modelling a nightie of pale green satin edged with cream lace just a shade darker than her own skin.

"You look very tasteful in that," Hawke said appreciatively.

Aveline wrinkled her nose. "That makes me sound like an after-dinner mint, which coincidentally this shade of green reminds me of, now that I think of it. Perhaps a darker shade," she said, and stripped the outfit back off again.

Aveline proceeded to find fault with a bright green satin gown with black lace peignoir – it covered too much, she said – a baby doll nightie of green lace that she didn't like the green of, calling it too mouldy a shade, and a dark green velvet corset with black lace trim that she claimed to have difficulty breathing in once the lacing had been done up. It was all Hawke could do not to whimper at the sight of Aveline in that last one, though she'd like them all.

"You should try something on too, Hawke," Aveline said as she sorted through the remaining outfits, trying to decide what to try on next.

"Oh, no, I couldn't."

"Why not? You deserve something pretty in your life," Aveline said. "Something to show off to that special someone."

"What special someone?" Hawke asked plaintively, only narrowly managing to not point out that the 'something pretty' she most wanted in her life was getting married in three more days, to someone else.

Aveline paused, and looked at her. "I thought you and Isabela...?"

"No. Well, a one night stand, but nothing... nothing _serious_."

"Oh. I'm sorry, Hawke, I hadn't realized... well, what about Merrill? She follows you around like a puppy you know. Thinks the world of you."

"I'm not really into elves," Hawke said. "They're so... small. And delicate-looking. And graceful. It makes me feel like an ox. A _clumsy_ ox. Nevermind that Fenris can out-lift me and he's a head shorter and half my width," she added glumly.

Aveline laughed. "Poor thing. You know he thinks the world of you."

"I know, but... he's just not my type."

"What is your type then?"

"Oh, well... I do rather like red-heads."

"Sebastian? He's got red hair. Well, red-brown. Perhaps more brown than red-brown, really."

"And I like freckles."

"There's Anders... though he's more blond than red-gold, but he does have freckles."

"And female," Hawke admitted, blushing and looking away.

"Oh. _Oh_. Oh, Hawke... you know I love you, but like a sister..."

"Yes, I know, like a younger _stupid_ sister... I shouldn't have said anything. I should go," Hawke said, hurriedly rising to her feet and feeling mortified.

"Hawke, no," Aveline exclaimed, and caught her hand. "Not like that at all. I...," she paused, and blushed. "I'm making a mess of this. I admire you very much, you know. If things had been different... if I was the sort of women who was interested in other women, if there was no Donnic... then I think I'd have been very happy to, err... hop borders with you."

"But there is Donnic."

"Yes, there is Donnic. And I'm not interested in other women that way. But I _do_ love you, and I hope that you find someone who makes you at least as happy as Donnic makes me. And I'm sorry that person isn't me. And I'd really like to hug you right now, if that's okay."

"It is," Hawke said, and the two hugged tightly.

"You're going to get water stains all over this outfit," Aveline said after a while.

"You're going to get rust splotches all over my armour," Hawke retorted. They laughed, and parted, each dabbing at their eyes, then smiled at each other. "Get that green corset if you really want to make Donnic go crazy," Hawke told her. "It's all I can do not to drool visibly."

Aveline grinned. "I'll do that," she said, then leaned forward and kissed Hawke's cheek. "Thank you." She stripped out of it, and put it aside, then began dressing again. And paused. "You know, Isabela has freckles too."

Hawke flushed. "I know," she said, and sighed. "Maybe if I help her find this relic she's been going on about she'll have more interest in a real relationship."

"Can't hurt to try. And maybe it will keep her occupied enough to give the rest of us some peace and quiet for a change."

* * *

**Sebastian/Merrill**

She heard him before she saw him; deep uneven breaths, wet sniffles. She hesitated, and almost returned to camp and the others, then heard the soft little sobbing gasp he made, and felt her heart drop. She bit her lip, then slowly walked forward, threading her way between the close-set bushes and the tumbled outcrops of stone until he came in sight. "Sebastian?" she called quietly.

He startled, not having heard her approach, and then quickly rose to his feet. "Merrill," he said, trying to keep his voice sounding normal, but failing. He quickly turned his back, swiping at his eyes; she had already seen the tear-tracks marking his cheeks. "What are... what are you doing here..."

"I might ask you the same," she said quietly, moving a few steps closer and to one side, "Except the answer is obvious. What is wrong, Sebastian?"

He made an odd sound, huffing out air. "Nothing," he said, turning his back to her again.

She made an exasperated sound, stepping closer and reaching up to set one hand on his shoulder, touching his wet cheek with her other hand and then showing the tear-moistened fingertips to him. "These are _not_ nothing. What is wrong?"

He stood silently a long moment, head bent, then sighed and turned to face her. "It is... it is hard to explain," he said.

"I am listening," she told him, and moved to lean against a rock near the one he'd been sitting on when she arrived. He resumed his seat, glancing at her and then looking away again.

"I do not know how much you know of what happened to my family," he began. "It was several years ago now... they were killed, all of them, at least all of my immediate family and most of my closest cousins."

Merrill nodded. "I remember the story. Varric told me once. Hawke hunted down the mercenaries who had done it."

"Yes, the Flint Company. She killed them all, which is how I first came to know her," he said, and paused again, looking off down the slope toward the distant water. "I had thought that knowing that the killers of my family were dead would bring me some peace. That revenge would make some difference in how I felt. I was wrong... I didn't realize how wrong until earlier today."

"What happened earlier today?" she asked, interested.

Sebastian glanced at her, and smiled crookedly. "Hawke gave me this," he said, and opened one hand, displaying a bit of jewellery on a chain; a large oval of gold set with tiny green and white gems, on a thin gold chain.

"What is it?" she asked.

"A locket; my mother's locket," he said, and then did something that made it open in two halves like the shell of a mussel or oyster. "You see, it has a miniature portrait of my father as a young man painted inside of it. And this, behind glass in the cover, that is a lock of his hair. It was one of the gifts he gave her when they were engaged. She often wore it, whenever she did not need to wear anything finer."

Merrill moved closer, leaning against his arm so she could more easily see the little painting. "How clever," she said, then looked back and forth between the portrait and him. "You don't look much like him, apart from the colouring."

He smiled crookedly. "No. I take after my mother's side of the family. Which is no hardship; she was a handsome woman."

She chewed on her lower lip for a moment, looking again at the painting. "She must have loved him very much, to wear this whenever she could."

"I suppose she did. They were a loving family, the pair of them, my older brothers... but not me."

"Not you? Why not you?"

"I wasn't wanted. They already had two sons – an heir and a spare, as the saying goes. My mother had hoped to have a daughter as well... she had me instead, and after that she couldn't have any more children. I'm afraid I was a bitter disappointment to them from the moment I was born, and that only became worse over time."

"That's terrible," Merrill said. "All children should be wanted. They are among the Dalish; children are the clan's future. The continuation of our lines."

"Ah, well, my parents believed they already had enough sons for the continuation of their line. They didn't believe I was needed for that."

"They were wrong though, weren't they? Because now you're the only one left; if you hadn't been born, then their line would be finished."

Sebastian studied her face for a moment, then smiled crookedly again. "It's finished anyway. I have my vows; I will not father any child. Our line ends with me."

"Well, that's foolish," Merrill said. Sebastian gave her a startled and mildly offended look. "I mean, I am sure your vows mean much to you, as much as my own vows mean to me, but... would your Maker _really_ prefer to see your line come to an end, rather than your vows being dropped? If so, he's a silly sort of god, isn't he?"

Sebastian smiled again, a real smile this time. "You have an interesting way of looking at things, Merrill," he said, then tilted his head a little to one side, which made him look so much like Hawke's dog wanting a treat that she almost laughed. "Tell me, what was your own family like? I don't think I've ever heard you speak of them."

"Oh, my birth family you mean? I don't know," she admitted, and shrugged, then shifted backwards to a more comfortable position on the hard rock, with her feet planted on the edge of it and her arms wrapping around raised knees. "I don't really remember them. I was very young when I was given away; only four years old at the time, I am told."

"Given away?" Sebastian asked, startled.

"Yes. Just like you were a third son, I was the third magic user born into my clan in recent years; more than we needed, and some other clans had none at all. So at the next _arlathvhen_ – a gathering we Dalish hold every ten years – I was given to the Sabrae clan to be raised as one of them. Marethari took me in herself; the First she had been training to succeed her had recently died, and she was already old enough that she knew she'd need to start training me right away. My earliest memories are of learning our history, and herb lore and all that sort of thing."

"That sounds like a very lonely childhood."

"Oh, no, it wasn't. Well, perhaps a little; I was always different than the other children of the clan. They had parents, and plenty of time each day to just be children and play... I had Marethari and my lessons. Even the games she played with me were more lessons, the songs she sung to me either teaching songs or the legends of our people. But I wasn't lonely; the whole tribe was my family," she said firmly.

Sebastian studied her face carefully, biting on his own lower lip now. Finally he spoke again. "In Starkhaven, growing up – and later after I first joined the chantry – I often thought that one of the loneliest things in the world was to be the outsider in a group of other people. To be there with them, and yet not be included in on whatever was happening. Did you not ever find it so yourself?"

She looked away, suddenly disconcerted. "I... perhaps. Sometimes. Anyway, we should be getting back to the rest of the group; they'll be thinking giant spiders have eaten us or something," she said, and hurriedly rose to her feet.

Sebastian stood up as well. "Merrill," he said, softly. She stopped, and looked back at him, feeling almost frightened for a moment, not wanting to think too closely about what he'd just said, and a little worried about what unsettling thing he might find to say next. "Thank you," he said quietly.

She smiled, relieved. "You're welcome," she said, and then led the way back to camp.

* * *

**Teagan/Delilah Howe**

Delilah slipped out of the ballroom into a deserted hallway, keeping her head high and fighting back tears. Oh, _why_ did Thomas always have to make such an ass of himself... he'd changed lately, and not for the better, since he'd started hanging around on the edge of Vaughan Kendall's group of friends. And his drinking was getting worse too, as tonight had so abundantly proved.

She was never going to forgive him for tonight, not after how thoroughly he'd humiliated her, staggering in drunk and loud like that, and then... then... She pressed on hand to her mouth to muffle her own sobs, and seeing nowhere else to take shelter in the quiet hallway, stepped into one of the window embrasures, drawing the heavy velvet drapes closed before settling down on the wide window sill and struggling to regain her composure.

She was startled to hear the scuff of shoe-leather against floor a moment later, then the steady tapping sound of someone walking along the hallway; not from the ballroom, where she'd entered from, but from further down. She bit her lip, stifling her tears again.

The footsteps stopped, directly outside the drapes behind which she was hiding. Someone cleared their throat.

"My apologies for intruding," a male voice said, softly. "I did not think it would be polite to let you think you were alone here when you were not. Is there any assistance I might offer you?"

Delilah felt mortified to learn that someone was witness to her distress. "No, thank you," she managed to choke out.

There was a brief pause, then he spoke again. "Not even the use of a handkerchief?" His voice was warm and just the faintest touch amused, but somehow not in any offensive way.

She sniffled. "I... thank you, yes. A handkerchief would be appreciated."

The drapes parted just enough to admit a hand, holding a neatly-folded square of white cloth. She'd thought at first that it might be some servant that had found her, but it was clearly a gentleman's hand, the fingernails neatly manicured, the skin looking as soft and well-tended as her own. The cuff of his jacket showed; dark blue, with an embroidered pattern of ivy in dark green and cream around the hem of it, each leaf of the delicate tracery no larger than her smallest fingernail. Beautiful work, and expensive; silk, by the sheen of it. Nor was the handkerchief she accepted from him some common square of linen, but finest white cotton imported from the north, lightly perfumed with some fragrance like citrus and cloves, a very pleasant scent. Not just a gentleman; a well-off one.

She carefully dabbed at her cheeks and eyes to dry them, grimacing when she saw the marks her makeup left on the cloth. She must look a horror.! She was glad of the curtain between them. "Thank you," she said again.

"My pleasure," he said, and walked away again. She heard the ballroom door open and close.

Elissa found her eventually, and after they'd washed her face and fixed her makeup, and they'd had some tea and little cakes to calm her nerves, they returned to the ballroom together. All sign of Thomas' earlier indiscretion were gone, as was Thomas himself, doubtless banished to his room for the night by their father, who would have been livid once he found out what the boy had done. She danced after that, with Oswyn and Fergus and Cailan, who laughed over Thomas' misfortune. "I've made a fool of myself at parties a few times as well, but even I've never thrown up what appeared by volume to be an entire bottle of red wine in the middle of a ball."

"Oh, Maker... _please_ , don't remind me," Delilah said, cheeks reddening with remembered shame and anger. "I'll never live it down."

"Hah! You're not the one who needs to live it down, Dilly... it's Thomas who does," Cailan said firmly.

"Excuse me, nephew, but Anora is asking for you," a voice said from just behind Delilah. A familiar voice, she found herself thinking even as she turned to look and found herself facing a handsome middle-aged man with short red hair, one forelock caught back in a braid tucked in behind his ear, and wearing a jacket of dark blue silk. She didn't even have to glance at the cuffs to recognize it; the ivy motif was also worked around the collar.

"I'd better go see what Anroa wants, then – she's in a foul tempter tonight; something about some young drunken fool ruining her dress," Cailan said, and grinned unrepentantly at Delilah for a moment as she coloured again. "I'll leave you in Uncle Teagan's capable hands for the remainder of the dance, Dilly... you'll have to owe me another dance later in the evening once Anora's been soothed down," he said, bowed over her hand, and hurried off, leaving her with Bann Teagan.

Teagan smiled at her, a real smile, the sort that made little crinkle-lines appear at the corners of his eyes, and offered his hand. She took it hesitantly, caught between being pleased to be dancing with Cailan's handsome uncle, and embarrassment at the realization that it had been he who had loaned her a handkerchief earlier. He smiled kindly at her. "Brothers can be a trial at times, can't they?" he asked.

She laughed, surprised. "Even Arl Eamon?"

Teagan grinned briefly. "Yes, even my own brother. He and I were young fools once too, and I'm certain I'm still a great trial to him at times. Don't give up hope on your brother yet; mostly we grow out of being fools as we grow older, you know."

Bann Teagan was a good dancer, and not only succeeded in making her smile before the end of the dance, but claimed her for a second one later in the evening, then a third after she'd danced with both Fergus and Cailan again, and made her laugh. By the end of the ball she was almost willing to forgive Thomas for his stupidity, the rest of the evening having been so enjoyable

Their father however, was not, as he made very clear over the breakfast table the next morning, rendering Thomas white-faced before he'd finished dressing him down about the incident. Delilah could only be thankful that she herself had done nothing for their father to take exception to.

"You did well, my dear," he told her approvingly. "Though you could have danced with Fergus Cousland a time or two more instead of wasting yourself on dances with Bann Teagan."

"I thought Bann Teagan was a pleasant man; very well turned out," she said timidly.

Their father sniffed and made a dismissive gesture. "It's his brother that's the Arl, not him, and now that Eamon's Orlesian whore has finally started bearing live children for him there's little likelihood that Teagan will ever inherit Redcliffe himself. You must aim higher, my pet... I'm not wasting my one daughter on a mere Bann, however good he is at buying fine feathers to please the ladies."

"Of course, father," Delilah said quietly.

She didn't think Bann Teagan had even been particularly interested in her, not in that way anyway... he was just a kind man. But she kept the handkerchief anyway.

* * *

**F!Surana/Warden!Carver Hawke**

"Ow! Blighted shem... watch where you're going," Rowan growled, and rubbed her chin and nose as she glared up at him, choosing to ignore the fact that it was she that had walked face-first into the stranger's chest, not he that had walked into her. Small mercy that the man wasn't wearing armour, but only a padded gambeson instead; walking into him had been like walking into a wall.

He blinked down at her, a surprisingly mild expression on his face. "Sorry," he said, and stepped out of her way, bowing respectfully as she stormed past.

She was pleasantly surprised by the politeness; most humans treated her like a servant – or worse – on first encountering her. Nathaniel often told her that if she'd at least dress properly in her warden blues that would happen less, but she _liked_ the comfort of her old robes and didn't see any reason why she should have to give them up just to be treated like a person instead of a piece of furniture. Especially in her own home, which all of Vigil's Keep technically was now.

It made him stick in her mind though, enough to recognize him again the next day when Nathaniel brought the newest crop of recruits in to meet her. Not that he'd have been easy to forget, being half a head taller and almost a foot broader across the shoulders than anyone else in the group. Bigger even than Alistair, she guessed, and found a smirk briefly crossing her face at the thought of Alistair meeting someone who overshadowed him, short of an actual qunari.

"Who's the tall one?" she asked Nathaniel later, after the group has been dismissed back to their new duties.

"Carver Hawke," Nathaniel said after a moment's thought. "Veteran of Ostagar. Comes from Lothering originally, though he was recruited up in the Free Marches somewhere."

"Refugee?"

"Yes. Apparently he was part of an expedition that went poking around in the Deep Roads, hoping for treasure. He's lucky to be alive; an old friend of ours was in their party and led them to a patrol of Grey Wardens when he realized the boy was tainted."

That made Rowan look up sharply. "Anders?"

Nathaniel nodded.

"Small world," she said, and sniffed. "That idiot; what did he think he was doing, taking a bunch of surfacers down into the Deep Roads?"

"Maker only knows; he doesn't answer my letters any more than he answers yours."

" _I_ don't write him," she pointed out.

Nathaniel smiled crookedly. "Neither do I. Wouldn't do to let it be known that he's still alive, after all. Rylock and Rolan might both be history, but there's others who'd want him just as dead."

Rowan made a face. "I wish I'd known what he and Justice were up to. Damn the First Warden for calling me away... Still, too late to be helped now. This Carver, he any good?"

"Stroud said he knows which end of a sword is the pointy bit. Uses a two-hander; rather impressive with it, actually. Keeps a cool head in a crunch, too."

"Good, we could use some more people who don't go to pieces the moment they bump into the unexpected," she said, and put him out of her mind again.

Not that he stayed out of her mind; not for long. Stroud and Nathaniel were wrong... he wasn't just rather impressive with a sword in hand, he was bloody _frightening_ with it.

"Where'd you learn that move?" she asked him, as they rested after a particularly nasty encounter in the Deep Roads. "That... that thing where you leap up in the air and then slam your blade down and turn darkspawn into goo?"

Carver actually flushed, looking like he didn't know how to take a compliment, which by her experience to date with human men was pretty blighted rare. Though it did make her think of Alistair again for a moment; that had always been a problem with him, too. So used to thinking of himself as useless that he'd never been aware of or willing to believe in his own competency. "A... a friend of my brother's taught me that. He was a warrior; best two-handed sword user I've ever seen. He's amazing with his weapon; I wish I could say the same. He barely comes up to my shoulder, and is skinny as a rake – he's an elf – but Fenris swings his blade around like it's made of paper. Damned sword is taller than he is; he's frightening in a fight."

She glanced at Nathaniel, and was amused by the look on the rogue's face; apparently she wasn't the only one who'd just been mentally applying that same word to the boy. "You do pretty good yourself," she said neutrally. "Good timing on ducking, too... sorry I almost fried your head."

Carver grinned. "I'm mage-trained. My father, brother and sister were all magic-users; I'm well used to figuring out when it's time to get out of the line of fire."

" _Were_ mages?" Nathaniel asked sharply.

Carver shrugged, looking sober. "Father died a couple of years before the Blight. And Bethany, my sister – twin sister – she didn't make it out of Ferelden. There's just Garrett left now; my older brother. He's never been much good at giving warning before cutting loose in battle. Set my hair on fire once; after that I sort of learned to keep half an eye on what the mages were up to."

"Apostates?" Rowan asked curiously; there were certainly no families of mages allowed within the circles.

Carver nodded. "Yeah. Garrett's still on the loose, though living in Kirkwall like he is, I don't know if that'll last. I hope it does; he's the last of us that Mother has left to look after, since I ended up as a Grey Warden."

She rather liked Carver, she decided eventually. He was solid, and not in the including-between-the-ears way that several of her better warriors were. Smart, friendly, didn't look down on her for being an elf _or_ being a mage, either. Capable. Reminded her of Alistair occasionally, but not in any bad way, just enough so that she found herself looking forward to the next time His Annoying Majesty dropped in at the Keep. She'd like to see the two men go up against each other in a spar; she had a suspicion Carver might be the first person she'd met who could reliably dump Alistair head-over-teakettle in a fair fight, and _he_ could always use being taken down a peg or two. Besides, it would be good for Carver's self-confidence, the one thing he needed more of, much as Alistair once had.

She came across him late one evening, sitting looking up at the night sky at the top of one of the keep's towers. A place she sometimes came herself, when she needed solitude, missing and not-missing the heights of Kinloch Hold. She would have withdrawn, but he turned and saw her, and the look on his face – sad, full of memory – drew her closer instead. "Homesick?" she asked.

He smiled crookedly, and shook his head. "No. Or not unless you count being homesick for a person, not a place... I was thinking earlier how much Bethany would have liked it here."

"Your twin? The one who died?"

"Yeah. She'd have made a good warden, I think... if she'd lived," he said, and gave a harsh, short laugh. "Did I ever tell you what killed her?"

"No," she said, and moved to sit down near him, on a wooden bench she'd had put up here so she'd have somewhere other than cold stone to sit. "What happened?"

"Well. You know I was at Ostagar? I made it back to Lothering just ahead of the darkspawn, though not by much, and got my family moving. We could see the smoke of the burning as we fled. And then the first darkspawn found us... it was a fight from that point on. We met some other refugees too, both good fighters. We got into a good pattern of moving and fighting. And then... an ogre. A blighted fucking _ogre_ , there in the middle of nowhere. It ran up... Bethany shouted something, pulled her staff, but it was on her before she could even cast a single spell. Dashed her to the ground like a child throwing down its doll in a tantrum. Garrett and I... it was like he went mad. We killed it, eventually, but it was too late for Bethany. It had broken her neck; killed her pretty much instantly. At least she didn't suffer; not like one of the others with us; tainted, and his wife having to give him the mercy stroke in the end."

Rowan winced. "Maker... you're lucky to have lived. Of all the darkspawn I've ever had to fight, I think I hate the ogres the most. At least they usually go for the big guys in armour as rag-dolls, though I've still had my ribs cracked by the blasted things a time or three."

Carver smiled crookedly. "I'd rank them pretty high on my own list of hatreds, though more for Bethany's sake than my own."

Rowan nodded. The pair of them fell silent for a while. "Sorry about your sister," she said after a while. "If she was half as good with magic as you are with that sword of yours, she likely would have been a very good warden recruit."

Carver flushed, and looked away. "I'm not all that good," he began.

"Bullshit!" She cut him off. "This is your commander speaking, Warden Hawke. I don't tell people they're skilled at stuff unless I blighted _mean it_. So unless you think I'm delusional, you can stop putting yourself down. Maker knows I get enough wardens who have the wrong ideas about their capabilities, but usually it's in the other direction, the ones who think they're Andraste's gift to warriors, wardens and women. You're _good_ , Carver... unlike some of our warriors, I never worry when I have you in my group. You make a damn good wall between me and the darkspawn, you know, and not just because you're shaped like a human imitation of a wall. And you know how to _duck_ , which is a valuable skill in and of itself," she added, and smiled. "Just don't let my praise swell your head, or I'll have to revise my opinion of you."

His blush had deepened as she spoke, but he smiled back when she finished. "I... thank you. I guess I'm not just used to thinking of myself as... good. Certainly not as any sort of gift to warriors, wardens or, um... women. That last would be my brother Garrett."

She laughed. "Well, then I'm glad we ended up with you, and _not_ your brother. Not that fraternization between wardens is forbidden or anything – far from it – but we have enough overactive libidos in the keep as it is, especially once you factor in Grey Warden stamina."

That made him turn bright red again, but he rallied quickly. "You remind me of my brother, a little," he said.

"Oh?" she asked, eyebrows raising.

"Yeah. He's also good at raising embarrassing subjects and making me turn bright red and feel about ten years old."

"Hah! Embarrassing subjects, is it? What, acknowledging that my wardens are a randy bunch? If you haven't noticed that already, you're either a complete innocent or dangerously oblivious. Or has no one tripped you and beaten you to the floor yet?"

"Can I refuse to answer that?"

"Maybe. Though I'm going to be shocked speechless if you tell me that no one has even tried."

He flushed again. "Tried, maybe... succeeded... no."

"Why-ever not? Or are you saving yourself for someone back in Kirkwall? Or Lothering?"

"Neither. Just... well, my brother might not be right that he's Andraste's gift to women, but you couldn't judge it by the way most people – of both sexes – react to him. I've, um... I've never..." He trailed off, then shrugged and looked away. "The only girl who ever kissed me was hoping I'd introduce her to my brother. I'm sort of used to being the wallflower while everyone else flits around _him_."

"Oh. Well, you're clearly forgetting one very key fact, Carver. Your brother? He isn't _here_. You are. And perhaps you should consider taking advantage of that while you can; we're wardens. We don't exactly get all that much time to sort things out. Grab your life while you can, Hawke – you've only got the once chance at it."

He looked thoughtful, then slowly nodded. "I'll give it some thought," he said. "You're probably right. And... thank you."

She smiled, and rose to her feet. "You're welcome," she told him, and set off back to her own quarters. And found herself thinking that she wouldn't half mind tripping him herself, if someone else didn't beat her to it. She had rather a weakness for that particular combination of strength and innocence. Another thing to blame on Alistair, damn his absent hide.

* * *

**Andraste/Maferath**

It was her voice he noticed first, rising in song as she stirred a kettle full of gruel. Like the rest of the women in the small encampment she was dressed in a nearly shapeless dress of coarse-woven cloth, wrapped in a threadbare blanket to keep off the worst of the winter's cold, a knitted shawl draped over her head. The skin of her hands and her bare feet were reddened and chapped, but when he drew close and she glanced his way, he saw she had a pretty face. Green eyes, as bright as newly grown grass, and hair of pale wheaten gold. She turned her attention back to the pot she was tending; he kept on toward the meeting he needed to attend, discussing strategy with the other war-leaders.

The next time he saw her some weeks later, she was chopping up wood for the fire, sleeves gathered tight to her arms with strips of cloth and her pale hair caught back in a loose braid that reached to her waist. She knew how to use an axe, not like some of the women who acted so frightened of the sharp head of it and its fall that they put themselves in danger. She just worked steadily away, attention focused entirely on her work, splitting billets one by one off of the log before her. He stopped a moment and watched her, admiring the economy of her movements, the width of her hips, the strength and grace of her, before moving on out of camp.

It was the spring before he saw her a third time, coming across the women washing clothes in the river on his way back from fighting the damned northerners again. Two months hard fighting and they'd regained only a single small river valley and three towns, one of the towns nothing more than a tumbled ruin, the fields around it salted. Not that they had enough people to spare to work the fields, anyway, even if they could be sure of keeping them until the harvest.

All the women were dressed in just their shifts, the thin wet linen clinging tight to their skin. He wasn't the only man to slow or stop his pony and just watch for a moment. A couple of lucky bastards even called out, dismounted, went down to the river to greet wives or girlfriends.

She saw him looking that time, and raised her chin defiantly, as if daring him to look further, or challenging him to look away; some uncertain mix of the two. The body hidden under her clothes was as well-formed as her face; strongly built, with good wide hips. He stared a little longer, letting her see that her awareness of him watching her did not disturb him, then rode on. A man had his pride, as much or more than any woman.

There was a feast that night, for the returning men, at least as much of a feast as could be had these days. She stood by a cauldron, ladling out bowls full of stew for other women to carry to the men at table. When one came to serve him, a woman he knew, he stopped her with a touch on the wrist. "Who is _she?_ " he asked, using only a small jerk of his chin to indicate whom he meant.

"Her? Name's Andraste. She was raised a slave in the far north, though born somewhere down here, she says; a fishing village, is about all that she remembers."

"Raised in the north? Then what is she doing here?"

The woman shrugged. "Escaped and mostly walked, as she tells it. A long walk. Traded herself to sailors and soldiers a time or two for at least part of it, is my guess." She gave him a sharp look. "Interested in her?"

He shrugged in return. "Maybe. I like her face."

The woman snorted, and left. He saw her lean over and murmur something to Andraste a little while later; saw the woman give him a look over one shoulder. An evaluative look, not one of distaste. And then smile, just the once, before turning her attention back to her work.

* * *

**Mother Petrice/Evelina – The Flesh is Weak**

Evelina carefully lowered herself to the ground, her back against the wall, the dry heel of bread held in one hand. The first food she'd had since morning of the day before, everything else having gone to the children. The oldest ones begged for coin or food – and sometimes stole both, she suspected – but what they brought back was barely enough to allow the younger children one small meal a day, and she often gave up most of her own food to the weakest or smallest of them. They'd come so far... she couldn't just see them starve now.

If only she dared look for real work somewhere in the city... but even if it had been safe to leave the younger children with only a few of the older ones to look after them, which it wasn't, there was still the fact that she was a mage. Going out regularly in public was just asking to be discovered, and she didn't think her charges could survive long without her help and protection. Not when there were predators in this city who'd see the children only as victims, as something a profit of some kind could be made off of.

Two of the children started fighting. She set aside her meal, rose tiredly to her feet, separated the pair, found out the cause of their fight, and calmed them down. She returned to find the remainder of the bread gone; vanished down some hungry child's gullet, she assumed, and couldn't blame any of them for having taken her food, not as hungry as they all were.

She was used to the light-headed feeling, used to the dizziness that came when she rose to her feet too quickly, used to the cramping pangs of hunger. She could never get used to the way the smallest children cried and whimpered at night, unable to sleep through their own hunger or nightmares, the dumb despair in their eyes even as she held and rocked them. They had lost everything; family, home, country. She had saved them, but for what? Slow starvation in the sewers of Kirkwall?

There must be a better answer. Eventually, she thought of one that might serve.

The walk up to Hightown the next day was hard, climbing stair after stair after stair. She had to stop and rest more than once, steadfastly ignoring the looks that people gave her, the meant-to-be-overheard comments on the stink of her and the filth of the ragged clothing she wore. She walked through Hightown market without stopping, moving as quickly as she could, carefully not looking at anyone or anything, aware of the mistrustful looks of the shop owners, of the cold flat stares of the guards.

"An' just where d'ya think _you're_ going?" A guard, stepping into her path as she paused at the top of the short staircase out of the market square to catch her breath.

"The chantry," she managed to say. "To pray."

He stared at her, narrow-eyed, then stepped out of her path. "That better be all you do. I'm watching you," he said. And did, following her at a distance all the way to the chantry, so that she didn't dare stop and rest again until she was part way up the long flights of stairs that led from the square before it to the entrance. She was half-fainting by the time she reached the door. A cluster of priests stood just inside, talking quietly. They looked distastefully at her as she staggered closer to them. "Please... help me," she managed to say, before dropping to her knees, faint with hunger and exertion. "The children..."

Two of them hurriedly backed away from her. The third, a woman with short-cut blonde hair, made a noise of disgust but moved toward her, not away. "Fools," she said sharply, sounding impatient. "The woman isn't ill, merely starving."

Some busy time later, she found herself seated in a comfortably padded chair in a small office, with a cup of warm sweet tea clutched in one shaking hand, a thick slice of buttered bread in the other. The woman sat behind a desk, watching her as she ate and drank, questioning her about why she'd come. Evelina could only feel thankful, for the food and drink, for the interest and understanding the priest seemed to show in her lengthy story.

"Something might be arranged about the children," the priest said after a while, then paused, looking thoughtful. "Tell me... are any of them mages? Is that why you didn't come looking for any official help before?"

"No, none of them are mages," she hurriedly assured the woman, then looked away, ashamed. The woman was so kind, seemed so trustworthy... "It's me that's a mage. That's why..."

"Ahhh," the priest said, softly. "I understand." She rose to her feet, and yanked on a nearby bell rope. "Don't worry, I'll see you get the help you need," she said.

Evelina felt a surge of relief. Her eyes filled with tears. "Thank you. Thank you so much..."

"Don't thank me, I'm merely doing my duty," the priest said, and smiled.

An odd smile, was all Evelina had time to register, before the door opened and a templar stepped into the office. "Yes, Sister Petrice?"

"Ser Varnell... see this apostate to the Gallows," the woman ordered.

Evelina felt the blood drain from her face. "No!" she exclaimed, and started to rise to her feet, the half-drunken cup falling to shatter on the floor. The templar acted quickly; draining her of magic before she could even think of trying to cast a spell, then grabbing hold of her, twisting her arm up behind her back as she struggled.

"No, the children, what will happen to the children," she begged.

Sister Petrice shrugged, and moved to resume her seat behind the desk. "What do I care what happens to a litter of useless Fereldan brats? We have too many of them as it is," she said coldly.

The templar dragged Evelina out of the room, ignoring her pleas and struggles as he called for a pair of templars nearby to come and give him a hand. She fought, but it was hopeless... even if she hadn't been drained, she was too weak to fight even one templar, much less three.

She blinked back tears of despair and shame as she was led away a short time later, back out into the sunlight, back toward the stairs she'd so laboriously climbed earlier. She shouldn't have come; better to have starved, looking after the children for as long as she could, than to be taken away from them and leave them helpless.

She'd been a fool, and weak, to have let her trust be taken with just a cup of tea and a false smile.

* * *

**Seneschal Bran/Bethany**

"Can't you go, mother?" Bethany asked.

"No, please, if I have to deal with that _dreadful_ little man one more time, I will go mad. You're so much better than I am at remaining calm and charming with bureaucrats, my dear. Please, just this time? Oh, if only Marian were here, she's so much better at these things..."

Bethany gritted her teeth. She should have been gone, as well, but despite all the times that Marian had sworn they would go on the Deep Roads expedition together, it had taken just one last minute outburst of pleading on mother's part for Bethany to once again be left behind. And now... well, mother was right, she _was_ better at dealing with bureaucracy than mother was, at least when diplomacy was what was called for.

She bathed as well as she could with a cloth and a basin of tepid soapy water, dressed in her best outfit, and set out for Hightown. It was a long walk, and she could only be thankful that the day was cool and breezy enough that she didn't overheat climbing up all those stairs from Lowtown.

Locating the house would have been easy, even if she hadn't seen it before, all overgrown with vines, its walls unwashed and windows thickly grimed. A city guardsman leaned against the wall near the open door, looking bored. "Excuse me, is Seneschal Bran here?" she asked. "I was to meet him..."

"Inside," the guard said, jerking one thumb at the open door, and giving her a head-to-toe look that made her blush. She lifted her head and walked past him, into the shadowed interior.

"Seneschal Bran?" she called once she was in the foyer.

"In here," a voice called from somewhere ahead of her. She moved forwards, and found him standing by the unlit fireplace in the next room, a large entryway with the fireplace to her right, a door to the left, and a staircase at the back winding up to a large balcony overlooking the room. It smelled musty, and everything was thickly coated with dust, save a few clear trails where people had walked recently. The Seneschal was a younger man than she'd expected; from the way mother talked of him, she'd pictured some dry old stick of a man, disapproving and full of his own importance. He couldn't have been more than middle aged – late 30s or early 40s, perhaps – and handsome, with dark red hair and warm brown eyes. He had excellent taste in clothing, though the colours were a little gaudier than she liked; he was not a noble, nor dressed quite like one, but still quite well-dressed for all that, showing a surprisingly trim waist and nice breadth of shoulder for someone who spent most of his time behind a desk

He turned and looked questioningly at her. "You're not Leandra Amell."

"Sorry, no... I'm her daughter; Bethany Hawke. She's asked me to take her place for today."

"Indeed. Well, I suppose we might as well get things underway," he said, and drew a folded sheaf of papers out from under his arm, then extracted a pen from one of his pockets; a dwarven-made one, with a metal nib, the sort that contained its own reservoir of ink and didn't require frequent dipping. She was only familiar with them from having seen Varric using one, and instantly envied the fine instrument, having to make do with gull feathers she gathered and sharpened herself. "Where shall we start?" he asked.

"I suppose in the entry-way is as good as anywhere," she said, and retreated there, Bran following behind. He looked around the nearly-empty room, and sniffed disdainfully. "One bench, wood, carved, badly scratched. One rug... worn and stained. Peed on, by the smell," he muttered, and began making notes.

Bethany trailed him along from room to room, waiting patiently while he checked the official inventory of the estate with what was actually there. Even in the few months since Marian and Bethany had cleared out the slavers, and the estate had been seized for unpaid taxes, things had gone missing. Mostly it was anything small and easily portable, though a few larger pieces of value – things like a beautifully carved wooden cabinet that had been in one of the upstairs bedrooms, and the suite of furniture from the master bedroom – had also disappeared. Seneschal Bran seemed quite irked by that, though Bethany wasn't sure if it was because he felt that the city guard should have done a better job of keeping an eye on the place, or because it was that much less that the city could demand in back taxes before Leandra could reclaim the family estate.

For that had been the agreement that mother had finally come to with the city; she would pay the taxes due from the time Gamlen had lost the house to the present, but the taxes had to be based on its current dilapidated and pillaged condition, not the worth of the last inventory it had had before the slavers occupied it. As she'd pointed out – quite firmly, apparently – it had been the slavers who by rights should have been paying the taxes all those years, and as the city had never moved to eject the slavers, and they'd sold off or destroyed much of the more valuable contents over the years, Leandra saw no reason why she should pay taxes on anything the city could not demonstrate would be returned to her possession once said taxes were paid.

"I believe it's time to take a break," Bran said, after they'd finished most of the ground floor and all of the upper one, which had taken all morning and partway into the afternoon to accomplish. He looked hesitantly at Bethany, lips pressing together for a moment, then sighed. "I brought a basket of food; would you care to join me in dining, serah Hawke?"

She could tell by the look that he meant it as charity, but she wasn't fool enough to turn down the meal, not when the other choices were to either remain hungry, or walk all the way down to Lowtown market in search of something she could afford to buy and eat. "Thank you, Seneschal Bran," she said. "That is very generous of you."

He'd left the basket in the dining room, sitting on the sword-scarred top of a long table that had been a fine piece of furniture before the house had become home to slavers and mercenaries. The chairs were just as damaged, only a few of the original set remaining, most of the seating provided by a pair of rough benches and a random selection of chairs, some from elsewhere in the house she guessed by their original quality, and some from Maker only knew where. Bran spread his handkerchief on a chair, and gestured Bethany to have a seat, then began unpacking the basket.

It was simple food – bread and cheese, some cold cooked sausage, some fruit – but far better than anything Bethany had eaten since before leaving Ferelden. The bread was fine white manchet bread, the cheese well aged, all soft and creamy inside a dry white rind, the sausage clearly made of good cuts of meat, not just organs, fat and gristle. And the fruit! Pears, just perfectly ripe and unbruised. She couldn't keep back a sigh of pleasure as she sniffed its wonderful odour. She set it aside to eat last, and looked up to find Bran watching her, a faint smile on his face. Not a smile of pity or amusement, she was relieved to see, not wanting one or liking to be a source of the other; more one of enjoyment, as if he'd been pleased by her reaction.

She flushed, and turned her attention to her meal, remembering her manners and eating slowly, in small bites, chewing and swallowing as noiselessly as possible. Seneschal Bran ate just as neatly, both of them silent at first.

"I must admit, I am surprised you've taken on the job of conducting the inventory yourself," Bethany ventured after a while. "It seems rather..." She trailed off, not sure how to complete that sentence without giving offence.

"Beneath my level?" Bran said, and smiled. He had a rather nice smile, she found herself thinking. "I suppose it is, but Viscount Dumar has taken a personal interest in the case. He feels that he owes your sister a favour. And if the Viscount owes someone a favour, it's often my job to see it filled. Which in this case means agreeing to your mother's not-unreasonable suggestion that tax only be due on what is actually still here, and my personally seeing to it that everything is handled both promptly and accurately."

"Oh. Because of Saemus?" Bethany asked, then bit her lip, realizing too late that the subject of the Viscount's son and his flirtation with Qunari ways might be a rather delicate one.

"Yes. Because of Saemus," Bran agreed dryly, then frowned slightly. "I hope your sister has not been spreading gossip about that little incident?"

"No, neither she nor any of her companions," Bethany assured him. "I know of it because I was there for it."

He looked surprised. "Really? I would not have taken you for a warrior. Or... are you a rogue, perhaps?"

"Neither... but someone has to carry the healing potions and bandages," she said, and smiled, hoping he'd believe the slight lie. "I've had training as an herbalist; my mother has a deft hand in the still-room." And both of those were true things; mother still treasured the family recipes for lotions, medicines, makeup and perfumes that she'd learned from her own mother. Between mother, and father's training her in potion-making, Bethany had been given a very good grounding in still-room techniques.

Bran nodded, accepting her story. "Of course," he said, then sighed. "I suppose we should get back to work. I'd prefer to get this done today, and we've the attic, kitchen and cellars yet to do."

"Of course," Bethany said, and quickly wiped her fingers clean of the juice of her pear before rising to her feet, more than half wishing she'd dared lick them first.

They inventoried the dining room and kitchen next, since they were already there. Bran frowned at the door to the cellars when they were done. "Cellars next? Or attic?" he asked.

"Cellars," she suggested. "By the time we're done those, the day should be cooling down, and the attic is less likely to be beastly hot."

"A good point," he agreed. "Cellars it is."

They had to take some time to locate a lantern that still had oil in it, then light a small fire so they could light the lantern. Bran muttered a curse as he scorched his fingers, then flushed and glanced at Bethany. "My apologies," he said.

Bethany grinned. "Why? I've heard worse; you forget my sister and I worked as mercenaries for a year."

"The Red Iron, wasn't it?" he asked as he handed her the lantern before leading the way back to the cellars, looking interestedly at her.

"Yes. And my brother Carver was a soldier, back in Ferelden... he served at Ostagar. He used to delight in trying to make me blush with the curses he knew," she said.

Bran smirked. "Did he succeed?"

"Not very often."

Bran frowned slightly as he took out his sheaf of papers again and began marking down the inventory in the first of the cellar rooms – a sizable pantry, with a cold room, the thick stone walls keeping it cool with without the blocks of ice that would have been used to keep it cold when the house was occupied. "I don't remember hearing of you having a brother," he said after a while, pausing to look questioningly at her. "You said he was at Ostagar?"

"Yes, though he survived that. Unfortunately he didn't survive our flight from Ferelden; we encountered an ogre. It was... horrible."

"I am sorry," Bran said softly, then resumed his work.

She followed him around with the lantern, finding her thoughts turning back to the last time she'd seen the cellars, full of slavers and apostate mages. How grim Marian had looked as they killed them, searching for the vault and the copy of the will that Uncle Gamlen had abandoned there. Varric had been pretty silent as well; Fenris was... well, not quite grim, but very intent. Focused. Given what she knew of his past, she could understand why he'd been so very thorough in making sure every single slaver they encountered died. Given what _she_ knew of his past, she hadn't exactly been above making doubly certain that a few of the downed slavers were dead herself, before moving on.

Bran never noticed the stains on the floor, or if he didn't, simply failed to comment on them. Bethany was very aware of all of them, especially the ones that she knew she personally had been responsible for.

She was also, she realized after a while, very aware of Bran's scent. Perhaps because here, unlike upstairs, she had to stay close to him, holding the lantern where it cast light on his notes, hovering behind his shoulder as he peered at crates, barrels, casks and other objects in the cellars. There was a faint perfume – something spicy, like cloves – and an underlying scent that she decided she quite liked. Not an entirely pleasant smell, being a little on the sharp side, but nothing as foul as old sweat, or anything worse; it was just sort of strong and musky, in an enjoyable way. A very _male_ smell, she decided.

By the time they'd finished inventorying the cellar, her overall boredom with the process meant that all she could really think about was Bran and how good he smelled; how handsome he was, for an older man. A briefly entertaining little fantasy or two.

"That's the last," he finally said, looking up at her from here he knelt on one knee at the end of a row of storage chests, having taken note of the contents of the last of them – a mix of torn treasures, frayed scarves, and other threadbare treasures. He frowned as he rose to his feet. "Are you well? You're looking a little flushed."

She managed a smile. "Sorry, I'm just finding it a little close down here; the rooms may be large, but they're so dark and dreary, and I'm finding the air a little stuffy."

"Of course," he said, and started for the stairs. "Well, just the attic left to do, and then we'll be all done here. There's windows up there at least; that should help, I hope."

"Yes," she agreed calmly, following after him. She bit her lip to keep back a wildly inappropriate giggle; after all, she could hardly have confessed to him that she'd been imagining being bent over the nearest barrel by him.

She found herself hoping more than a little bit that there'd be other occasions where mother asked her to go deal with the Seneschal in her place. _She_ certainly had no objections to seeing more of him in future. In both senses of the word.

* * *

**Loghain/Surana**

Loghain felt unaccountably hesitant to knock on the door. Had he any other choice, he would happily have turned and walked away; retreated from the confrontation, a thing he rarely did short of facing overwhelming odds. Which made it doubly unsettling that he found a single short and slender mage at all intimidating.

And yet... and yet the mage – the Grey Warden – had survived overwhelming odds to reach this moment. The defeat at Ostagar, pursuit by soldiers of the Ferelden army, a blighted _Antivan Crow,_ capture and imprisonment in Fort Drakon, even a duel with Loghain himself; the mage had escaped them all. And survived even worse, according to the rumours and reports he'd heard.

The door suddenly flew open, the frame filled by the looming shape of Maric's bastard. He had a thunderous expression on his face, which only darkened further when he saw who was blocking his way.

"Alistair," Loghain said, and stepped aside. The man made a noise somewhere between the growl of a dog and the spitting hiss of a cat, and stalked away down the hallway, radiating angry displeasure.

"Loghain," called a voice from inside the room. Calmly, and quietly, yet still quite firmly.

He sighed – silently – and entered. The mage was seated in one of the window embrasures, sitting sideways on the wide sill with a book open in his lap. "Warden," Loghain said, and gave him a shallow but respectful bow.

Alim merely studied him for a long moment, then dipped his head in acknowledgement. "Warden," he said as well, then swung his legs off of the sill, turning to face Loghain, closing his book and setting it to one side. "How was your night?"

Loghain grimaced. "Troubled. Riordan tells me these nightmares are to be expected?"

The warden nodded. "Yes. And a few other things. Increased strength and stamina are the good ones. Increased hunger one of the annoying ones. Shortened lifespan... though the way things are going I don't know that any of us will have to worry overly much about that particular effect," he said, and smiled grimly.

"What do you wish me to do now that I am a Grey Warden?"

"Prepare to march later today; we're off to Redcliffe to meet up with the dwarven and elven fighters and the mages."

"Redcliffe seems rather out of the way."

"Yes, well, I could hardly ask my allies to gather in Denerim," Alim said dryly.

Loghain nodded. "A good point," he conceded.

"Anyway, we'll be leaving directly after the midday meal; you have until then to gather what belongings you wish to bring and make any good-byes you desire. Other than that... follow me. Obey my orders. Try not to stab me or my companions in the back."

Loghain smiled crookedly. "I'll try my best."

"Trying is not sufficient. _Doing_ is what counts."

"Of course," Loghain said, and bowed again, amused that the elf had reprimanded him with much the same words he himself would have were their positions reversed. "May I be dismissed? I have much to see to if we're departing that soon."

"Yes, go," the elf said and turned back to his book.

* * *

Loghain spooned up more of the beans from his plate, and glanced across the fire towards the mage. He was staring into the flames, his own half-empty dish sitting forgotten in his lap, fingers wrapped loosely around the handle of his spoon. In someone else Loghain might has taken it for mere distraction; with the warden, he knew, it for deep thought. Alim didn't get distracted, or at least Loghain had yet to witness him do so. Another of the ways in which the mage reminded him a little of himself; that ability to remain focused.

Though it wasn't himself he saw most often in the mage's words and actions. It was Maric. The elf looked nothing like him, acted and spoke little like him, and yet... and yet he had that same ability to command the attention and obedience of those around him. That presence, charisma, call it what you will, that made others respect him, made them willing to follow him unquestioningly into danger. Well, perhaps not _entirely_ unquestioningly – he had rarely seen a more wilful band of individuals than Alim's group of companions – but despite all their arguments and squabbling they still followed the elf where he led them.

Alim suddenly moved, putting aside the remainder of his meal and rising to his feet, then stalking off into the surrounding fog without a word spoken. The several conversations around the fire faltered, most of them watching the warden walk away with vaguely anxious expressions. Loghain frowned, puzzled by their reactions, and glanced from face to face. He doubted Wynne would talk to him – she'd already made her contempt for him quite clear – the witch obviously detested him, and frankly he wouldn't have trusted the bard if she said it was wet out during the middle of a thunderstorm unless he was there to personally witness it himself. Which left the drunken dwarf, the qunari spy or the assassin. He settled on the Crow as most likely to give him an honest answer; besides, the elf was seated next to him, while the dwarf was some distance away.

Accordingly, he looked questioningly at Zevran, who being a Crow was aware of his regard the moment he turned to look at him. "What's wrong?" Loghain asked, as quietly as he could.

Zevran gave him a coldly evaluative look before responding. "He is moody at times, our Warden," he said, and paused, biting his lip, then continued. "Alistair could usually talk him around when he gets this way. But Alistair is not here any more, is he?"

"No," Loghain agreed, and glanced around at the others again. Several had gone back to eating, concentrating on their plates as if food was the only thing of importance. Wynne and Leliana had their heads together, talking quietly, both with looks of concern still on their faces, but neither moving.

It didn't look like anyone intended to go after the elf. Loghain sighed, set aside his own plate, and went after him, following the faint internal tugging at his senses that told him where the other warden was. An uncanny ability, that, though he'd already seen how useful it was; he and Alim had been aware of a darkspawn attack even before the creatures came into view the day before, and he'd always known during the course of the fight just where the elf and the remaining darkspawn were in relation to him.

Tonight, it meant the thick fog made no difference in his ability to follow Alim into the thick woods bordering the clearing where they'd camped for the night. He found the mage within minutes, seated at the base of a tree, his back braced against it and the forequarters of his mabari in his lap. Alim looked up at his approach, looking neither welcoming or unwelcoming – nor surprised – and then gave a tiny dip of his head in acknowledgement of Loghain's presence. Loghain glanced around, then lowered himself to sit on a nearby rock, preferring a hard seat to the damp ground.

They sat in silence briefly, the only sound that of the mabari's panting. Alim was the one to break the silence.

"You've commanded people in battle before."

"For many years, yes."

"Does it ever get any easier? Losing people. Losing friends."

"For some people it does... for many – the best ones, I'd tend to say – it never does."

Alim gave him a faintly puzzled look. "You surprise me. If anything I'd have thought you would consider it better to be able to... to not let it bother you."

Loghain shook his head. "No. A good leader values the lives of the soldiers under him. It's... a difficult position to be in. You must be able and willing to make that sacrifice; to order people into battle knowing that some of them will not return. And at the same time you must also always be aware of the cost of such battles, so that you only spend the lives of those under you when the goal is worth the cost."

"And was Ostagar worth the cost of King Cailan?" Alim asked.

"No. But nor was it worth spending the lives of half the army in an attempt to save just one man. Even when that man was my King. Maric forced me to acknowledge that some years ago. At the time I did not agree with him... but later, when I saw the lists of all who had died at West Hill... well. I still am not sure that Ferelden would have been able to defeat the Orlesians without him. Rowan or perhaps Bryce might have been able to step into his shoes, but we'd certainly have been a very different country without him. And yet... the sacrifices of so many people are a heavy weight to bear. I think he understood the necessity of it, but he never became reconciled to the cost; that so many died that both he and Ferelden might live."

"And have you ever become reconciled to it?"

"No. Each man I lose who died unnecessarily diminishes me. If I could fight a war and never lose even one man on my own side... that would be a perfect battle. But perfection does not exist on earth," Loghain said tiredly, then looked thoughtfully at Alim. "It is not losing men in battle that currently worries you though. It is losing Alistair."

Alim gave him a startled look, then looked away, jaw setting. "Yes," he admitted, then sighed and looked down at the mabari, ruffling the dog's ears. "We've been through so much together, since Ostagar. We were friends... brothers, even. Brother wardens. Brothers in arms. If anyone had asked me before the Landsmeet if I had any doubts that our friendship would endure, no matter what... I'd have felt that was true. But now... he's gone. He walked away."

"And it hurts," said Loghain, very quietly. Now it was his turn to look away, he found, not wanting to be witness to the look on Alim's face, nor able to face Alim with the look he knew must be crossing his own. Old, bitter memories... "If there is one thing that it seems every small child in Ferelden could tell you about me, it is that Maric and I were friends for almost all of our lives. That is both true and... and not the whole story. We were friends, yes, though not at first. I thought him a spoiled idiot; Maric didn't exactly like me at first either. We grew into our friendship, over time, learning to appreciate and trust each other. But there are points, actions, which wound a friendship. We hurt each other very badly, before the rebellion ended. For some time – until many years after the end of the rebellion – we avoided each other. And yet... being unhappy with each other, remaining away from each other, it was not because our friendship was any the less than what it had been before. It was that it was too painful; we needed the time apart before we were able to move beyond the hurt, and resume our friendship. And when we did... it was almost as if we had never been apart. Almost, because there would always remain that slight difference, that now we knew how much we could hurt each other. And feared it happening again."

He forced himself to look at Alim again. The elf was watching him, a thoughtful expression on his face. "You two have hurt each other, and for now he has walked away. But do not believe that means your friendship is over; give him time. Give _yourself_ time."

Alim smiled crookedly. "Good advice. Though I don't know how much time we have, with an Archdemon to be faced. That's the part that hurts most... that if something happens to either of us, we won't have had a chance to reconcile. That the last time time I saw him, we neither of us said a proper good-bye."

Loghain felt his own face stiffen, and forced himself to nod. "That happens, sometimes," he said, aware of the edge of hoarseness in his voice. "Though with a true friend, there is never anything that can be counted as a proper good-bye. There is just... an ending. And emptiness, after."

He looked away again. And did not look back, even when Alim quietly rose after a while and returned to the camp.

* * *


	42. Ask Box Ficlets 31

**Anders/Fenris – Camping**

There were times when Fenris regretted that Aveline had become the Captain of the Guard, and that Carver Hawke had become a Grey Warden. Times like today, when Garrett's need for a warrior could only be met by Fenris' accompaniment. Usually he did not mind such trips, as _usually_ Isabela, Varric, or Sebastian came along as well, and he got along well with all three rogues. However, in this case the party was made up entirely of mages, apart from him, and if he found one mage annoying – even if that mage was Garrett, whom he overall considered surprisingly trustworthy, for a mage – he found three nigh-on intolerable, especially when two of them were abominations.

He glanced ahead, to where Garrett and Merrill were walking hand-in-hand, paying little attention to the vegetation around them despite them supposedly being here in search of herbs, then turned and looked back down the mountain to be sure that Anders had not dropped back out of sight, waiting impatiently for him to catch up again before moving forward to keep the other two in view. They had stopped, he saw, at a widening in the trail as it wrapped around the mountainside, a place with a moderately scenic view off to the east.

"I think I can just see one of the aravels from here," Merrill was saying as he approached, pointing off eastwards. "That spot of red, where the mountain folds..."

"You've better eyes than I do, sweetness," Garrett told her, then looked at Fenris. "Can you see the Dalish encampment from here, Fenris?"

"No," he said shortly, not even bothering to try, then pointed further east. "Though I see that storm moving in quite clearly."

"Those clouds are rather black," Anders agreed as he trailed up behind them, his arms full of twists of vines and weedy-looking herbs. "Should we try to make it back to Kirkwall?"

"Too late already, I think," Garrett said. "Better to find a safe place to camp; this trail will turn into a streambed in heavy rain."

"There's a clearing further up," Fenris reminded him. "The place Varric shot that deer three months ago."

"I remember it," Garrett agreed. "That was good eating. All right, let's get to there and get camp set up before that storm arrives. Enough gathering herbs for today."

"Yes, we've gathered so much already," Fenris said dryly, looking back and forth between Garrett's empty hands and the small bouquet of straggly wildflowers Merrill was holding in one hand.

"You're hardly one to speak," Anders said sharply.

Fenris gave him a cold look. "I was brought along for my skill with a sword, not for any ability to tell elfroot from poison ivy. I'm here to guard the three of you, not do any gleaning myself."

Anders snorted, and muttered something under his breath as he turned away, stalking away up hill with all the long-legged grace – or more properly, lack of it – of a disgruntled stork. Fenris gestured for Garrett and Merrill to proceed him, and brought up the rear, pausing only once to look back and judge the speed of the approaching storm.

They reached the clearing while it was still sunny overhead, though the view of Sundermount to the east was now hidden by the approaching rains, and quickly set to organizing their camp site. Fenris and Garrett hurriedly raised a pair of tents, while Anders packed away his herbs and Merrill divvied up some trail rations for their meal. There was no point in gathering wood for a fire, not with the rains so close, the smell of it already noticeable on the wind. A clean scent, one Fenris much liked, though he'd have been just as happy to have no rain and the scent of wood smoke in its place.

"Here comes the rain," Garrett said as the first drops began to fall. Merrill squeaked, hurriedly passing out the food before diving into one of the two tents, Garrett following her in at a more sedate pace. Anders scowled, and ducked into the remaining tent. Fenris was tempted to stay outside in the rain, rather than having to share with him, but sighed, silently cursed in his head, and crawled in after him instead.

It was tight quarters inside, only just barely enough room for the two to spread out bedrolls side by side, with a bit of space at the far end for their gear to be piled up in. The tent smelled of cut vegetation from Anders' herbs, which was at least not an unpleasant odour; far better than wet dog or mildewed canvas, which in Fenris' experience to date was what most tents smelled like, when they didn't stink of flatulence or body odour instead. Better a night out under the stars than sharing a tent, in his considered opinion, though with storm clouds overhead instead of stars he had little choice in the matter.

Fenris sat cross-legged on his bedroll, nibbling on his share of the food. It wasn't a particularly filling or tasty meal, just a few pieces of hard tack, a couple of strips of jerked meat and a scant handful of dried fruit, leathery and darkened with age. Still, it was better than having nothing at all, and Anders was clearly having no problem inhaling his own share of the food. Fenris watched him warily, thinking not for the first time that as much as the man ate when he did have food on hand, he always had a pinched look about him, as if he never had enough.

"Here," Fenris said, holding out an untouched strip of meat. "I'm not going to finish it, you might as well have it."

"It not good enough for you?" Anders asked, but took it from his hand anyway, sticking one end in his mouth to gnaw on.

"I eat little, and prefer grain and vegetables to meat," Fenris answered, and wrinkled his nose at the half-eaten stick of jerky he still held. "And fresh meat to stuff as poorly preserved as this."

Anders' eyebrows rose. "I'm surprised you're as picky about your food. In my experience..." He broke off abruptly, scowling.

"I am picky about few things, when it comes to food," Fenris said, and tossed the half-eaten piece of jerky over to Anders as well, preferring to work on a dark strip of what he thought might have started life as a peach over the salty, rancid-tasting meat. "But I cannot abide fish, and can barely stomach good meat." He gnawed off another bit of fruit, sucking on it until his saliva softened it before chewing and swallowing. "Slaves were not allowed meat, and the only fish we ever saw was usually stinking with age, or pulled from rivers and harbours that were little better than open sewers; as likely to sicken you as to give strength to your limbs."

"What did you eat, then?" Anders asked, and to Fenris' surprise there was nothing but curiosity in his tone. Perhaps that was why he answered, instead of simply ignoring the question as he normally would have.

"Different grains, dried beans and peas, mostly. When we were still on our master's country estate, we had a small garden patch of our own by our hut. My mother grew some root vegetables and squashes there. But after we were moved to his city estate, there was no room for that. All the space within the walls was given up to our master's gardens; flowers mostly, a few fruit trees, and his kitchen garden. He dined on fresh lettuces and green peas and ripe red and gold tomatoes while we survived on pease gruel and rotting fish."

Anders nodded, but didn't say anything further, letting the subject drop. They sat and ate, listening to the rain drumming on the canvas overhead. Anders finished eating first, and stretched out on his bedroll, lying on his stomach which his chin resting on crossed arms, his mantle puffing up around his narrows shoulders like a bird fluffing its feathers for warmth. Fenris stretched out as well when he was done, lying down with his head at the opposite end, preferring the smell of herbs to dusty feathers.

A giggle was briefly audible over the sound of falling rain; Merrill and Garrett were clearly enjoying themselves far more than Fenris and Anders were. Anders made a soft discontented exhalation through his nose, then turned over on his side, curling slightly so he could look at Fenris. "It's going to be a long night, considering it's not even evening yet," he pointed out. "Want to take turns telling stories to pass the time?"

Fenris made a face, but decided the mage was right. It _was_ going to be a long night. "All right," he said. "But you first. And try to avoid proselytizing about mage rights, or I would prefer silence."

Anders smiled crookedly. "I suppose that's wise," he agreed, and shifted again, to lie on his back, pillowing his head on folded arms. "Did I ever tell you the story of the time I ended up working at the Pearl in Denerim? It's rather like the Blooming Rose, but considerably less high-brow, being a dockside establishment..."

Fenris settled down comfortably as well, listening.

* * *

**Fenris/Carver/Isabela – Friendship**

"Carver? There's someone at the door for you," Leandra said, leaning to the room that Carver shared with Garrett – or had shared, until Garrett had disappeared down into the Deep Roads two weeks before.

"Who is it?" Carver asked as he rolled off the bottom bunk.

"I don't know... some of your brother's friends, I think," she said, and sniffed, making a face. "Disreputable sorts."

Carver rolled his eyes behind Leandra's back. Mother didn't approve of any of Garrett's friends, apart from Aveline, and that poncy priest they'd helped the once, who'd made a pretty show of greeting Garrett and insisting on being introduced to mother the next time they'd attended chantry services. Still, he hurried out to main room, frowning when he realized mother hadn't even invited them in, but instead left them standing outside, the door only just cracked open.

Carver wasn't surprised to find it was Fenris and Isabela waiting there for him, seeing as Aveline, Varric and Merrill had all accompanied him off into the Deep Roads, though he was a little surprised that they'd come here looking for him at all. "Sorry about that," he told them as he joined them outside, closing the door behind him. "Mother should have asked you in."

Isabela made a dismissive gesture. "No worries, puppy... I know too well that a disappointment mothers can be. Anyway, it's not her we're here to see, it's _you_."

"You haven't heard anything, have you?" he asked anxiously. Any word from the expedition this early would be bad news, considering the trip had been estimated to last at least a couple of months.

"No, we've heard nothing," Fenris assured him. "We merely wanted to seek out your company."

"My company?" Carver asked, confused.

"What Fenris is saying is that we'd like you to join us at the Hanged Man for drinks and cards. I have a room there... not as well set up as Varric's suite, but comfortable enough," Isabela explained.

"Just us three?" Carver asked, still feeling confused over why they'd seek out his company. "I don't have much money for gambling..."

Isabela made a dismissive gesture again. "We'll play for toothpicks or coppers or favours something, it's meant to be just a friendly game between friends, a pleasant way to pass the evening together. I'd have asked Anders to join us as well, but Fenris objects."

Carver paused a moment, chewing on his lower lip, then smiled, pleased to realize that the two of them thought of him as a friend, and not just as Garrett's tag-a-long younger brother. "I'd enjoy that, I think," he said. "Let me just let mother know that I'll be out for the evening. She worries," he said, making a face.

"So I've noticed," Fenris said, smiling sightly.

* * *

**Fenris/Anders – Give me hope for tomorrow**

Smoke on the horizon; not the first time Anders has topped a rise to see such, and undoubtedly not the last. He stopped and just stood, swaying slightly with exhaustion, cursing to himself. He could guess the source of the smoke, it having been his destination; the circle tower near Ansburg.

 _Too late, too late, too late_ , the litany ran through his head. His painfully, echoingly empty head, quiet apart from his own internal monologue, Justice having fallen silent over the long weeks since they'd left Kirkwall. Justice wasn't _gone_ – there was nowhere for the spirit to go, after all – but he had gone silent, turned inwards, balled himself up somehow so that all Anders knew was that he was still there, a vague sense of _not alone_ all that was left of his once formidable presence.

The quiet crunch of dry vegetation underfoot was the only announcement Anders had of the arrival of his remaining travelling companion. "Too late," Anders said, voicing the words he'd been thinking.

A soft wordless exhalation was his only answer for long moments. "Where next?" Fenris finally said, voice sounding calm, almost emotionless, though Anders had come to know him well enough to recognize the tiredness in those two words, the worry. Worry for him, to his continued surprise every time it happened.

"I don't know," he admitted, his own voice breaking on the final word, his despair breaking through. "I thought... we didn't think it would be like _this_." He wasn't sure what he and Justice had thought any more, about what it would be like, after... some nebulous idea that knowledge of the events in Kirkwall would shake the community of mages in much the same way the shocking noise of the explosion had reverberated through the streets of the city, leaving all changed in its wake.

They had not accounted for the reactions of the non-magical, their fear and horror leading to anger and violence and worse horrors as word spread. They had not accounted for mages too cowed by years of chantry rhetoric and templar control to fight back, even when directly attacked. They had not accounted for mages frightened enough at such attacks to lose all control and allow possession or turn to blood magic in their desperation, making things even worse as word of further atrocities blameable on mages spread.

There was too much he and Justice had not accounted for when Justice turned to Vengeance, he thought bitterly.

He had stood still and unresponsive too long. Fenris' gloved hand closed around his arm, turning him away from the view of distant smoke, tugging gently to lead him back down the hill they'd just so laboriously climbed. Fenris stopped once they were far enough down the slope for the hillside to block out the view, leading Anders off the narrow goat-track to where a shelving of the slope cupped a small mountain meadow, filled with wild grasses, scattered with the drying heads of wildflowers.

"Sit," Fenris said, pushing down on his shoulder, and when Anders did not do so, sighed, and sat down himself, then gripped Anders' wrist and tugged until Anders reluctantly sat down beside him, before wrapping his arm around Anders' shoulders. Anders let his head droop then, closing his eyes and letting the terrible numbness overwhelm him. He wished he could still cry, he found himself thinking, noticing how hot and dry his eyes felt, but he seemed to have lost the capacity for it since Kirkwall.

"You should just leave me," he said, bitterly. "Let the templars find me."

"I promised Hawke," Fenris said evenly. "I keep my promises. Anyway, _someone_ has to look after you; for all your stories of your many escapes, you're useless on your own in the wild."

Anders made a strangled sound at that. It was, unfortunately, all too true; without Fenris' help, he'd doubtless have been recaptured or dead within the first week. By all the old gods, he wished that Hawke was still here, but... he trembled for a while, eyes still painfully dry, as they'd been from the moment he'd turned away from the shallow grave that was all they'd had time to dig. Trembled, and let himself take comfort from the way Fenris' arms closed around him, holding him close until the fit passed.

"Tell me it'll get better eventually," Anders finally said, voice dull and broken, and then, in the face of Fenris' continued silence, "Lie to me if you have to."

Fenris made a soft snorting sound at that, one almost of amusement. "It will, eventually. I doubt things will be able to return to the way they were before. It will be _different._ But... better for who, I cannot say." He fell silent for a while, then his arms tightened momentarily before dropping free. He rose to his feet. "Like any birth there will first be a lot of blood and screaming. You're a healer; you've experience of seeing that through," he said firmly, and offered his hand to pull Anders to his feet.

* * *

**Sebastian/Anders – Dispelling Fears**

He has forgotten many things since leaving Kirkwall, since falling into the hands of bandits who had no reason to treat him kindly and practised cruelties on him instead, amused by his suffering. His belief in himself, never strong, is gone. Repeated abuse and starvation have largely destroyed whatever physical ability and stamina he'd had. His trust in his fellow man is gone as well, though it had already suffered a near-mortal blow before he left Kirkwall, when Hawke so coldly refused him.

He is among strangers now, men and women in armour; better armour than the bandits wore, though not by much.. At least these people, whomever they are, have so far been gentle with him, with him and the other captives they freed from the bandit stronghold. They have given him a little food and water, and bandaged the worst of his wounds, the man doing so swearing harshly over the state of what remains of his right arm. They carry him, strapped to a board or carried pick-a-back in places too steep or narrow for it, rather than abandoning him to his fate or forcing him to walk on lacerated feet.

At night he cannot sleep well, between his fevered pain and the nightmares. The worst are of the axe coming down, the stump held against a heated stone afterwards to cauterize it while he screamed and twisted in his captors' hold; done to keep him alive for further torment, not out of any mercy. It is still hard for him to believe the reality of having been so crippled; when he closes his eyes it sometimes feels as if the hand is still there, he could swear he could feel his fingers curl around a length of polished wood, but when he opens his eyes it is always just soiled wrappings that meet his eyes, stained with dried blood and matter.

They reach a place, eventually, a stopping point, little more than a low log building in a clearing bordered on one side by what is either a very small river or a rather large stream, with many tents thrown up around it, and a second building clearly in the process of being raised, bare rafters stark against the sky. He is carried into the first building, shifted from plank to a low cot, a blanket draped over him. The man who bandaged his wounds bends down, clasps his shoulder carefully among the bruises and welts.

"You're safe here," he says quietly, and pats the shoulder again before rising and moving away, the others already gone, out to whatever tent is their home or work that waits for them.

His eyes close and he drifts near sleep, hearing the rumble of voices somewhere nearby, though not the words at first, not until they come closer – the man with the bandages, and some other.

"...cut it right off. They did a piss-poor job of it, it's gone septic. Did what I could, but he's burning with fever from the infection."

"I'll start with that then, if he survives it I doubt the other things you've described will kill him" a voice says. A voice he recognizes even before the man exclaims in equal shock." _Andraste's flaming tits!_ Sebastian!?"

He is scrambling away, tipping the cot over sideways to slam painfully into the floor, even before the man finished speaking. The men are between him and the door, the nearest window too close to them as well. Frightened and in pain he ends up backed into a corner, curled up tightly with his arms raised to fend off the expected attack. His fear only grows worse as armed figures storm into the room, drawn by the alarmed cry of the man accompanying Anders.

"Stop!" Anders shouts, bringing the bedlam to an abrupt stop. "Out of here, all of you, you're not needed. He's too sick to be any threat to me – go on, go."

The room quiets as they leave, not without grumbling and backwards looks, until only the three of them remain. "Go," Anders says again, taking to the bandage man, sounding tired.

"You're sure?"

"I have nothing to fear in the condition he's in, and he's an old... an old acquaintance," Anders admitted. The man departed at last, leaving the two of them alone.

He was sitting in a warm puddle, Sebastian realized, and couldn't even summon up the shame some part of him thought he should feel. All he could feel was fear, as Anders moved closer before crouching down, an arm's length away.

"Sebastian," Anders said again, quietly. "I don't... I'm not here to hurt you. Don't fear me."

He does. He fears everyone now, he knows, and that he does feel shame over. He cannot help but flinch away as Anders reaches for him, expecting only pain, cannot help but lash out as Anders' hands touch him. The resultant struggle is short – he has no stamina, and the fever affects his co-ordination – and ends with a swearing Anders holding him in his lap, ignoring the dampness of his clothes. " _Quiet_ ," Anders commands, and his words must be backed with some amount of magic, as Sebastian finds himself falling silent and stilling, despite it making his terror even worse. Helpless, in the hands of one he can only think of as an enemy...

It takes a long time for the terror to recede, as Anders lifts him up and carries him to another room, stripping off his sodden rags and wrapping him in a clean sheet before setting him down on a high wooden table, the surface smelling of a recent scrubbing with lye soap. His arm has been opened and drained, poulticed and rebandaged, the worst of his other wounds gently tended as well, and Anders is brewing some sort of medicinal tea to dose him with, before his feeling of terror finally fades, his body unable to sustain the fear any longer. He is feeling only tired when Anders props him up, holding the cup of warm liquid to his mouth.

"You're safe here," Anders assures him, meeting his eyes. "I won't hurt you... you have nothing to fear."

As he starts to doze off afterwards, exhausted from events and perhaps in part due to the tea, he is vaguely startled to realize that some part of him believes Anders' words.

* * *

**Merrill/Fenris -Worlds Apart**

Fenris walked a few paces back from Merrill, hoping it would not seem as if he was escorting the smaller elf, though that was exactly what he was doing, at Isabela's request. The pirate was worried about Merrill's safety following a recent increase in anti-elf sentiment in the city. Fenris would have questioned how his presence would help the situation any, were it not for the fact that very few people ever dared show any such enmity openly to him. Something about walking around with a sword on his back taller than he himself was seemed to have a quelling effect on people.

Merrill herself seemed completely unaware that she might be in danger outside of the alienage, and was almost skipping from stall to stall in the marketplace as she examined the variety of goods offered for sale there, smiling at and talking cheerfully to the merchants, who seemed to vary between smiling back, and monosyllabic responses accompanied by slight scowls. Yet their scowls did not seem to phase Merrill in the slightest, and even as he watched she chattered and smiled at one such, and the woman's scowl changed to a smile, accompanied by an eye-roll. Then she and Merrill were haggling spiritedly over a handful of leggy-looking plant cuttings, some sort of herb Fenris guessed though whether it was medicinal or edible _he_ certainly didn't know. Merrill eventually handed over some coppers and a little pot of some sort of salve in exchange for the herbs, and the woman's smile was broad now, as warm as Merrill's own.

It was like a magic Merrill did, making friends out of even the unlikeliest seeming of people. Fenris had little doubt that the merchant would have a smile for Merrill again the next time the elf crossed her path, while Fenris would still be getting only the same dubious looks he always received, or the carefully blank ones that would be openly hostile if it weren't for the sword at his back.

Merrill all but skipped over to him, smiling warmly at him. "It's a beautiful day, isn't she?" she said, then spotted something she wanted at another stall and was off again, hurrying across the square to be greeted with a nod and a smile, and handed a piece of fruit to sample.

He supposed that, for her, it was a beautiful day. For him, it was merely a day like any other.

* * *

**Sebastian/Anders – Doing Something Fluffy**

It was the last place he'd have thought to have seen the mage, here so far away from Kirkwall. By the surprise on Anders' face, it was the last place the mage would have thought to encounter someone _he_ knew either.

"Anders? What are you doing here?" Sebastian asked, voice sounding strange even to himself as he sat motionless on his horse, having pulled up the moment he'd recognized the raggedly-dressed man as having a familiar face.

Anders held up one had to shade his eyes against the sun, gestured with the other – holding a small sickle, Sebastian saw – at a basket sitting on the ground nearby, half-full of bundled herbs. "What does it look like I'm doing?" he asked in an acerbic tone of voice.

"Gathering herbs?" Sebastian said, and tightened his grip on the reins as his horse shifted its weight, wanting to continue the run they had been on.

"Yes. Gathering herbs," Anders agreed. "This is a good place for them; good enough to make the trip worth the time it takes to get here."

Considering they were at least a four day journey from Kirkwall – and that by ship and horse, not on foot – the meadow must have been a very good place for them indeed, or the herbs ones very difficult or expensive to obtain in Kirkwall.

"Do you need a hand?" Sebastian asked abruptly and dismounted even as he asked, not waiting for an answer.

Anders lifted an eyebrow. "You'd rather do stoop-work than... whatever it is you're riding around doing out here?"

Sebastian grimaced. "I was riding out of frustration, not for pleasure or with a destination in mind. Helping you gather herbs would at least be a _useful_ way to spend my time," he explained, unable to prevent his frustration from showing in his voice.

"Ah," Anders said, other eyebrow rising to join the first before they both lowered in a frown. "Find somewhere out of my way to tie that beast then. Make sure it's not near any of these plants with the little white flowers – horses _will_ eat it even though it's not at all good for them," he said in a very dry tone of voice, then turned away, crouching down to cut stems of some leggy-stalked weed.

Sebastian nodded, despite Anders not being able to see him do so, and led the horse across the meadow, finally finding an area of long grasses and none of the white-flowered plant, where he tied the reins to a sapling tree before walking back over to Anders, peering at the contents of his basket to see what plants the mage was interested in before drawing his belt knife and setting to gathering as well.

"So what's this good for?" he asked as he made his first contribution to the basket.

Anders glanced to see what plant he had in hand. "That's good for people with a wet cough; a hot tea made of that helps the phlegm to come up. The seed from this," he pointed at another bundle, "helps women to not conceive, and a paste made from the leaves of this draws the heat from a dirty wound. That flower there is only good for making perfume, but I can trade it to Lady Elegant for other simples I need; it only grows up here in the mountains, nowhere near Kirkwall, so she gives me a good value for it."

"And this?"

"A decoction of the root and berries stops people from throwing up. Watch carefully for patches of this low-growing plant – hard to find and every part of it from root to leaves and flowers and berries is useful for something. Hence why it's hard to find – fools dig up the entire thing and don't leave any to regrow and continue on."

They worked in silence for a while, the sun warm on their backs, though there was enough of a breeze to keep the warmth merely pleasant.

"I missed you," Anders said after a while, softly, his voice just barely audible over the sound of the wind in the grass. "Why are you all the way out here, and what has you so frustrated?"

Sebastian sighed, then gestured back along the direction he'd come from. "An old ally of my father's has a keep near here. I've been visiting him, trying to convince him to lend me men to try and take back Starkhaven... he's been very hospitable, but while he's not said no, it's very clear that he's not going to say yes, either."

Anders grunted. "I can see why that would be frustrating," he said, then straightened up, pressing his hands to the small of his back as he bent backwards and then from side to side. "Time for a break," he said. "I might have enough for two." Hesitantly.

Sebastian bit his lip, then rose to his feet. "I brought food as well. We could share?"

Anders smiled warmly at him, just briefly, so rare an expression for him to turn in Sebastian's direction. What there was between them... it was complicated, and made even more so by the necessity of keeping it a secret even from their friends. Well, Hawke's friends more than Sebastian's, though most of them would consider Anders a friend. But as dangerous as their relationship was to both of them, the secrecy was necessary.

Even here. They ate sitting on the ground, keeping a careful space between them, their conversation innocuous – more about herbs, and Anders speaking of how he'd travelled here, so far from Kirkwall, mostly walking through with Varric's vouching for him the first half of it had been riding in the back of an ox-drawn cart. Their hands touched, once or twice, in passing things back and forth. But while lips didn't speak, eyes did, promising much the next time they might find sufficient safety and privacy.

They continued gathering herbs for a short while after eating, working side-by-side, Anders pointing out plants and talking of their properties as they harvested. "I've had almost enough gathering for the day," the mage finally said, then nodded his head toward Sebastian's horse. "And you're going to lose him in a couple minutes."

Sebastian hurriedly rose and looked, and saw that the horse was chewing on his reins, one already gnawed through and hanging loose. He swore, returning his knife to his belt and hurrying over to grab the horse before it could get free. Thankfully it hadn't succeeded in doing much damage to the second rein, though he had to trim the chewed-up ends of the first rein before he knotted the ends back together.

"I'd best head back," he said as led the horse closer to where Anders still stood.

The mage nodded, then cocked his head to one side. "I'll be here another couple of days before heading back to Kirkwall... if you find yourself needing to waste more time."

Sebastian smiled crookedly at him as he mounted the horse. "I thank you for the offer," he said. "I leave tomorrow; perhaps my path will take me this way, before I return to the coast to take ship."

Anders nodded. "I'd like that," was all he said, and remained where he was, watching as Sebastian rode away.

* * *

**Aveline/M!Hawke**

Aveline sighed contentedly as she rolled to the side, snuggling up against Hawke. He made a pleased sound, nosing into the hair behind her ear as his fingers, surprisingly nimble for their size, traced a wandering line from freckle to freckle along her shoulder and down her breast. She lay there and just drifted for a while, enjoying how tactile Hawke was after sex; one of many things she'd come to appreciate about him.

"Hawke," she said after a while, voice pensive, and rolled over so that she could see his face.

"Aveline?" he asked, one eyebrow crooking questioningly upwards.

"You know we said this wasn't going to be anything serious between us, just..." She trailed off, unsure how to continue.

"Just two good friends having a fun time together? Fuckbuddies, as Isabela would put it?"

"Yes," Aveline agreed, wrinkling her nose a little at the mention of the other woman, then sighed, and rested her head on his chest, unable to look him in the eye any further. She toyed with his chest hair, curling it around her finger and tugging slightly.

"Ow. Stop that.," he said, capturing her hand in his. "Is this your way of saying there's someone else?"

"There's... the possibility that there might be. Someone I like. But he's not the sort who'd try to get involved with someone who's already involved with someone else, so..."

"Ah. Good."

"Good?" she asked in surprise, raising her head to look at him again.

Hawke smiled sheepishly, and moved his opposite shoulder in a one-armed shrug. "Saves me having to tell you the same thing. That there's the possibility."

She smiled warmly at him. "Who?"

"You first, since you started it. Who's your _someone I like_?"

"One of my men... you've met him. You helped me save his life a while back, before I was made Captain."

Hawke's eyes unfocused in thought for a moment, then a wide grin suddenly crossed his face. "The guardsman with the magnificent sideburns? D-something..."

"Donnic. Yes. I've always liked him, but I didn't think he was interested in me, but..."

"But something has caused you to change your mind about that?"

"Yes. Something a friend told me they'd heard him say. Anyway, I have to at least give it a chance. You understand?"

"Of course I do," Hawke said, and hugged her tightly. "I hope it works out. You deserve someone who is more than just a friend."

"Thanks," she said, and hugged him back for a moment. "Now, who is yours?"

"You know them too," Hawke said, face colouring a little – not much, but she knew him well enough to know that he was embarrassed to answer.

"Not... not _Isabela_ , is it?"

"No," Hawke said, wrinkling his nose. "She's made it very clear she doesn't want anything more from anyone than a fuckable friend. I seem to get that reaction a lot," he said dryly, leaning down to brush a kiss over the crown of her head.

"Well, you _are_ surprisingly good at it," Aveline told him archly, before grinning at him. "Merrill? No, wait, you said _them_... more than one, or are you trying to not say that it's someone male?"

Hawke grimaced again. "You always catch me out on things. Yes, male. Singular. Very singular."

"Anders? No... _Fenris!?_ "

"Yes, Fenris," Hawke said, and the tone of his voice made her smile fondly at him again.

"You're besotted, aren't you?"

"Yes. He's just so..." He broke off, and made an expansive gesture with his hands.

"Prickly, Isabela would say," Aveline said. "Insufferable, if you listen to Anders. Broody, according to Varric. While Sebastian, if he would admit to anything at all, would doubtless call him handsome."

Hawke smiled crookedly. "I never chose the easy ones, do I?"

Aveline laughed, remembering his fumbling and initially unwanted attempts to tempt her into his bed. "I guess you don't," she agreed, then fell silent for a while, thinking about Hawke, and about Fenris. "He'd suit you," she said after a while. "I hope it works out for you too."

Hawke smiled warmly at her, then hugged her. "So. Our last night together?"

"Yes. At least together like this," she agreed.

"Best make the most of it while it lasts then," he said, and kissed her.

She laughed, and kissed him back.

* * *

**Sebastian/Fenris**

Fenris almost didn't recognize him. Wouldn't have, if he hadn't glimpsed the man's eyes as he turned and stepped closer to the campfire, an achingly bright blue that was rare to see. The eyes made him take a second, closer look, and while the face was much changed – the line of the nose spoiled by a break, the bow of his lips pulled crooked by an ugly scar, cheeks far gaunter than he had even seen, skin darkened and hair lightened by sun exposure – still, he could recognize the man he'd known years before in the man he saw now.

He continued on to the meeting between Hawke and the leader of this group of mercenaries, but excused himself as soon as he could afterwards, slipping through the encampment in search of the man he'd seen. He didn't approach him directly, but once he'd spotted him, let himself be seen, seeing the flash of surprised recognition in Sebastian's eyes before the man schooled his expression. Fenris walked away into the darkness, withdrawing to a spot well downriver of the camp before settling in at the base of a large willow set back from the water. He lit a candle, setting it on a root of the tree, then set to tending his gear by its light, waiting.

It was over an hour later before he heard the faintest scuff of a nearby footstep, beyond the ring of low-hanging branches. He waited, methodically sharpening his belt knife, until Sebastian finally gathered his nerve to push through the drapery of withies and leaves to stand before him.

"Fenris," Sebastian said, glancing warily around.

"It is no trap," Fenris said, and gestured to the ground. "Sit, if you wish."

Sebastian stood still for long moment, then nodded and moved closer before dropping to sit cross-legged nearby. "Your word, I'll believe. You at least have never betrayed me. You were a friend."

Fenris grimaced at the reminder of long-gone events, old grievances. "I am still a friend," he said. "Unless you no longer wish us to be so."

Sebastian gave him a long look, then smiled, a hint of his old warmth showing in the curve on his lips. "I would be pleased to still call you friend," he agreed, and chewed on his lower lip for a moment. "Why are you here?"

"Hawke is here speaking with your commander; she seeks to hire your group."

Sebastian made a sound of disgust at that, a grim look crossing his face. "Time for me to move on again then," he said.

"She would call you friend still too, if you would let her."

"After Kirkwall? After _Anders?_ "

"The mage is long dead," Fenris said quietly. "Can there not be forgiveness between the two of you?"

Sebastian shook his head. "How can there be? It was her knife in his back, Fenris."

"And his in yours."

Sebastian looked away at that. Few had ever known of his short-lived relationship with the mage; Isabela had guessed. Fenris had known, had known too how hurt he'd been when Anders had ended it. How much it had wounded him when the mage had moved in with Hawke, within days of ending his affair with Sebastian. "I understand why he acted as he did," Sebastian said, voice rough with old grief. "Understand, and do my best to forgive. Are any of the others with her still?"

"No. Aveline remained in Kirkwall, as did Varric for a while; last we heard he'd gone away, somewhere in the west. Merrill took ship with Isabela; I have not had word of either in years. Of all our group, there is only I that still accompanies Hawke."

Sebastian nodded. "Why do you stay with her?"

"I have few enough that I think of as friends. With Varric and Isabela both gone... that left only you, and Hawke."

"You could have looked for me."

"I did. But I was always too far behind you, and after your attempt on Starkhaven... I judged it safer for you if I stopped trying to find you, with the price Goram had put on your head."

Sebastian grimaced. "It probably was. And now? If I do not wish to join Hawke, will you stay with her, or follow me?"

"I do not like that you would make me choose. But I have missed you, Sebastian... more than mere words can say."

Sebastian studied his face, then sighed and held out one hand. "I will trust that you are right that she would still wish to call me friend. And I am tired of hiding. Take me to her."

Fenris smiled and rose to his feet, keeping hold of Sebastian's hand and pulling him up as well. "Gladly," he said.


End file.
